


The Copper Lantern

by Pitkat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 127,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitkat/pseuds/Pitkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Notoriety thrives on duality. A reputation can afford hard earned perks, yet also breeds a blinding pride. Attaining such recognition for Zevran was wholly by accident, but once he had it, the high was more intense than any herb he could refine or woman he could lure. And the lengths he would go to keep it were to define his character for the rest of his days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve always been a fan of Zevran, in part because he was glossed over in the first game. Out of all of the characters, he seemed to be capable of the most depth, and the fact that his backstory is sparse, I’ve taken the opportunity to flesh it out how I see fit. This is a character study and written with the premise that non-DA fans could enjoy the story without knowledge of Thedas. 
> 
> When I originally started writing this in 2013, there actually was little to nothing written about Zevran, and it’s only recently (post DA II, ca. 2015) that have I seen anything more than a small blip on his backstory, let alone anything about Taliesen and Rinna. So, I was happy to be left with a lot of running room to develop these characters. It turns out that Taliesen is implied to be from Tavinter and survived a shipwreck to get to Antiva, and Rinna is actually the bastard child of Prince Estefan. Even the guild master was eventually given a name (Eoman) and the House Arnainai. SO, this created minor writer’s block for a while because I really wanted to create a story that was canon-esque, and now with this new information, I’ve had to tweak it so my characters are not so AU. Hopefully, the result is ok. There have been comics written about Antiva though, and my hope is that I have further embellished that world for those who have read the Dark Horse Comics. To me, I find Zevran too intelligent to have been effectively thrown to the wolves as a boy. He comes off as very cunning and manipulative in the game (I see him as a consummate liar even, putting up a front for others), but also deeply intuitive and sensitive, so I wanted to play with an origin concept that allows that sort of intelligence to be nurtured through a realistic struggle. 
> 
> Please note I use a lot different language that is not common in the DA games. I did this to dive more into the Antivan culture. So, for example the use of the word Daedric instead of City Elf, which becomes an important distinction later in the story. I have also chosen to deliberately refer to humans as Shem because I like the idea of humans having a different name than ‘human’, and although Zevran never really related with his fellow elf, the story is written form an elf perspective. Have patience with the lingo – it will settle into a rhythm, I promise. 
> 
> I would love you know what you think, so please review. I would ever be so grateful to hear your thoughts. Happy reading!

Zevran was born in a brothel deep in the heart of Antiva City. He was an only child surrounded by the folly of a prostitute’s profession. Yet, if asked, he would say his childhood was a happy one. The children would often run up and down the open halls, hiding in cupboards, stealing from the clients, hassling the Mothers who cared for the women residing there. He would get a good swat if he got in the way, but adult business was a faraway concern to a child.

His mother died long before he could even call her name. To him, the Mothers were his mother, although they looked nothing like him. They all had greying brown locks. They were pudgy, soft and squishy. The other children were like dark-skinned siblings. They were mostly Shem, but it made no difference to them that he had fair complexion, white-blonde hair, or Daedric features. He could run fast and got away with treats most of the others could never get to if they wished. Life was good. It was all he knew.

Then an old man came to the brothel. He was not interested in renting a woman, and instead, he asked for all the boys to be lined up against a wall. The Mothers did as told, pointing at each with their name, rough age, and qualities as the elder passed. To Zevran, he was tall and wore a long white beard. Years of a hard life washed out into the wrinkles on his face and hands. The figure stopped at the boy’s feet and peered down his narrow bridge into young golden eyes, asking the caretaker how old he was.

“Answer him,” The Mother demanded.

“Seven,” was Zevran’s reply.

The man turned to the woman after some pause and dropped a coin into her hand.

From that point on, Zevran was no longer in the care of the brothel and its Mothers. Hastily, his few belongings were gathered, and the boy was ushered out the door and into the busy streets of Antiva City.

Still, even then his life became more interesting than tragic. The old man brought them to the outskirts of the City. It was a quaint villa filled to the brim with books and plants. A cat kept guard of the kitchen and there was a broad veranda on the top floor from which the boy could see most of the coastline. Zevran had never seen the ocean before and would prefer to spend as much time as he could on the balcony overlooking the distant water. He was given a bed in a small room off the main landing. It seemed this stranger might have adopted him, or so the boy thought.

Over time, he learned the old man’s name was Master Philippe Naheeme. At first, Zevran was instructed to carry out only minor tasks – deliver messages, carry goods back from the market, clean the rooms he was allowed to venture into. Eventually, he learned to cook and tend the garden out back, whilst the maid lent to the Master was returned to his friend. The old man did not speak much to the boy other than to direct him to his next chore, and Zevran chose not to think much of it. He got a clean bed and plenty of food and fresh clothes as he was quickly outgrowing the rags he wore back in the City.

Many, many visitors came and went through Master Naheeme’s home. Every day there seemed to be people at the door, and it was Zevran’s job to see that their needs were met. He was ordered never to speak to any of them. To some, he was never allowed to even look at them in the eye for to do so was very disrespectful. He was to take their cloak or hood in silence, guide them to the sitting room near the front foyer, give them wine and then leave. Most of the time, he obeyed. However, sometimes he would sit just outside in the hallway and eavesdrop. His intention was not to deliberately listen in, but he was curious. He wondered who these people were and why they always came around in such secrecy.

They came at all hours of the day and night too, and the boy was expected to answer no matter the time. He began to recognize some of the visitors. There was a younger man, whom always dressed in dark brown. He had a deep scar on the left side of his chin. He was also one of the few that spoke warmly to the child, one day leaning over in the hallway and whispering, “Careful not to listen so closely this time unless you want your Master to catch you.”

Caught off guard, the boy stayed away from the hall entirely, at least for a couple of days. His courage worked up again the next time the man visited. He asked, “What’s your name?”

The man chuckled, “You may call me Vinter.”

A broad smile crossed the child with this new friend.

Others were not so congenial. They saw him and openly sneered, questioning the old man why he would waste his time on the knife-ear. He would surely die from whatever the man proposed to do with him. They saw the lithe stature and narrow features he possessed like the housecat saw the mouse she hunted on lazy afternoons. He was easily discredited and spoken down to, for which the boy could not understand. All he did was take their coat and offer them a drink.

On days there were no guests calling at the door or chores to do around the villa, Zevran was told to sit with the old man in a small reading room near the rear of the house. In truth, the boy was already a bit too inquisitive and sometimes ventured into the archive late at night when the Master was fast asleep behind a dusty book. The tomes all carried a brand of academy to them. He pushed up the page the old man was reading and peered at the scrawl blankly. Turning a couple of leafs, he ultimately landed on a series of intricate drawings, mostly of various plants and shrubs he could not identify. None of these things were in their garden. But, the artwork was endless and lifelike. It enthralled him. So, one day as he sat on the floor of the library, the boy could not help himself as he slipped a book off the shelf and slowly opened the cover when he thought the elder was not paying attention.

“What are you doing?” The Master muttered behind the easel he was leaning on. For weeks, he was writing into his own tome, abandoning sheets of parchment to float around the room filled with his discarded thoughts and sketches.

The boy regretted his action and moved the book back to the shelf.

“I asked what you were doing.”

The child stilled himself much like he did back at the brothel when he was finally caught with something he should not have. Biting his lower lip, he thought it better to not answer.

But the old man was not satisfied. He dropped the writing feather onto the table beside him and faced Zevran, “Speak when I ask you a question.”

“I took a book off the shelf,” he whispered.

“Why?”

The boy shrugged. He was bored, but he was not about to say that. The Master retrieved himself from the stool and walked over to him. Stern blue eyes flowed over the sandy mop below seemingly pinning the child to the floor. Slowly, he leaned over to the shelf and picked out the dark binder, noting petite outlines from where the thief touched it moments before.

Zevran was waiting for the blow to come, subconsciously wincing as the man pulled himself upright and flipped opened the cover.

He snorted, “You are interested in maps?”

The child sat on his hands and looked up. Shyly he nodded.

“Well, why did you nigh say something?” He huffed. The man turned back and dropped the book casually on the desk. Dust billowed out into the room. With a tired groan, he sat on his stool again motioning for the child to follow, “Come here. I will show you.”

Suddenly, each day was charged with a lesson. The almanac he chose was by accident, but that choice resulted in Zevran having to memorize every single map in the bloody room. He could recognize none of the symbols, but that mattered little as he was taught to see the name and recognize it. Each place, each map had a special history too, and the Master rattled on for hours about who drew the atlas and why. Most were exploratory in nature and most were of the coastline. The old man would retell fables of pirates still travelling the waters to this day and the treasures they carried with them to and from various kingdoms to the South.

The boy learned that Antiva in was very wealthy kingdom. He should feel lucky to live in a place where there was no shortage of import or blight of disease. Most of their realm was surrounding by land, but there was a narrow window of ocean in the east to their name. The Arlethan Forest, also known as the Daelish Wood, hovered to the north and Qunari lands even farther. To the west lay Tevinter, and to the south Navarra and the Free Marches. They lived in the desert, which was dry and uninhabitable to most. Only the eastern country was comfortable with seasonal rain and good crops where the Pillar Mountains merged into the giant Weyrs River.

Other maps were of the inland terrain covering forests and mountain chains. Zevran asked what the Daelish Wood was and why most maps suddenly stopped at it borders.

“Because of the savages that live within, boy. Most who venture there never come back.”

“Who are they?” His attention now peeked.

The Master chuckled a bit darkly, glancing down at him, “Your ancestors.”

A daily routine began to form as the weeks and months went by. In the morning, Zevran made breakfast, fed the cat, plucked goods from the garden, dusted the main hallway, cleaned his room and the archive, made lunch, sat in the foyer whist the Master attended to guests, ran errands into the nearby village and retrieved dinner, tidied again, and then sat for lessons in the archive for the evening. On odd days, he was also required for laundry and any other chores that happened to crop up. And of course answer the door whenever anyone called, no matter the time. Most of the day was boring, and the child would spend his timing redrawing memorized images in the books he stared at the night before. He was intrigued by the notion of the Daelish. He had little reference for the term “ancestor” but thought it interesting that the Master would connect him with it.

The lessons eventually expanded beyond almanacs and story telling. The old man started to show him what the words in the books meant, telling the child to recite the phrases clearly as he went. Most of the prose had little context though, and the Master broke the words apart so he could more easily digest them. He seemed more excited to have a pupil than Zevran was to learn, and even when the younger began to protest his exhaustion in earnest, the elder would point at the text and order him to recite it again until correct. With this, the boy learned to read and write four languages in eight years.

The old man was beginning to have trouble walking and required a cane wherever he went. Zevran often travelled with him simply to carry things and help him up steps. They visited many stately places around the City from grand open palaces to more modest, but no less vibrant, villas to the Chantry. He felt humbled the first time he saw the Chantry. Zevran never saw walls so tall before, and the echo of the Sister’s hymns sent a soothing shiver inside him. He was only allowed into the Great Hall while the Master spoke to whomever he was there to see, but that was enough to occupy the boy. He would walk down the edge of his enclosure, gaping toward the arched ceiling. Each alcove he traced opened into another room or nook with ornate stone statues. People stood about reading from ancient tomes, and a persistent hum pervaded the place. He could not tell what it was, but it felt familiar somehow.

Zevran was also required to get all of the supplies for the Master, usually on the way home from their weekly excursions. The first time the child was sent on this errand, he did not come back with all of the goods.

“I need everything on the list. Go back out there and retrieve them.”

“But,” he protested. “I nigh had enough coin.”

“Of course you did,” the old man scolded. “You paid too much, is all.”

“I nigh can haggle. They throw me out if I haggle.”

This was not a sufficient answer, and the pair was back out the door with the list in hand. It was a bit embarrassing to watch the elder approach the street merchant knowing he would be in for a quarrel. The boy spent a better part of thirty minutes arguing that he was being given a different price than the Shem just before him. And the merchant knew whom he was shopping for. So incensed, the trader nearly swiped the boy in the face and threatened to throw him off the merchant block for daring to mouth back. Yet, to Zevran’s shock, only cheery hellos and banter flowed between Master and his nemesis, and soon enough, the youngster was called out from the alley he was hiding in to speak straight to the merchant.

“What was on the list?”

Bitterly, the child looked up to the clerk. The old man nudged him again and a sullen answer followed, “Barley.”

The merchant sniggered and pulled out the stash Zevran amassed from their earlier encounter, “Eight ginny.”

“Oh, come now. Certainly, we could find a better price,” the old man chortled with a rare smile. He pointed down at the child, “He cost me too much on his shopping today, and I need the remainder for dinner, yes?”

For the first time in his short life, Zevran felt deeply insulted, jerking up to the old man in utter disbelief. He had no intention of costing anyone anything!

But the ploy seemed to work. The merchant glanced down at the boy whom now carried a pained and worried expression and sighed, “Six.”

“Five.”

“Fine.”

The old man grinned and dug into his purse. As the two began to pull away into the alley, he tugged the child aside, “Did you see what I did?”

Anger seeped into view, as Zevran vehemently wanted to tell his elder all the ways in which he hated him. Instead, he managed a, “No.”

“Merchantry is an art that requires finesse. You nigh can expect to be given a fair deal.”

“But,” he whined. “He gave someone else a better price. I was standing right there!”

“Yes,” he nodded, a grandfatherly tone emerging beneath his bushy beard, “and how much did your dispute with the merchant buy you?”

He stood up again and motioned for home. The old man said such things took practice, and so each time Zevran ventured back out for various errands, he was purposely given less coin to buy what he needed. After a while, it became a game between them, and whenever he returned triumphant in childish exuberance from whatever deal/plea/sad expression he could muster for a better price, he was allowed to keep what he did not manage to spend.

This was first time the boy had coin all his own. He did not know what to do with it, in fact. Carefully, he would tuck the money away into the gloves his mother left for him, neatly tying up the wrist knots to form a makeshift purse. For safe keeping, of course.


	2. Part One Chapter Two

Occasionally, they would leave the City entirely. When Zevran was older, the pair made a several month journey to the North. The Master was looking for a specific plant and spent a fair amount of time teaching the boy how to recognize it in the hills around the outskirts of the Daelish Wood. When asked what he needed it for, the old man was somewhat reticent, saying nothing more than he was cataloging it for self-interest. The boy could not argue. The man had already started to show him how various herbs changed texture when rotten, telling him they had unique qualities in the brewing of beer and other elixirs. He thought it was interesting that plants still had use even after they were plucked from the ground and long passed their time at the dinner table.

The place was wrought with danger, however, which was all the more exciting to the small child. He had never seen such open spaces and tended to explore too far out of the old man’s line of sight when they settled into various parishes for the evening. There were a number of occasions when the elder almost became violent, lecturing again and again not to wonder off.

The villages were strange compared to the City. Everyone knew everyone. Most were farmers tending goats along the outskirts of the desert in the drylands that bordered the northern woodlands. They were also quite superstitious and did not like the site of the Daedric child. Twice, the pair was refused lodging because of him. The rejection hurt, more because Zevran could not understand the distrust. He thought he did something wrong, but the old man grumpily rebuffed him.

“Nigh listen to such queer nonsense. This place is steeped in a different age.”

He sniffed, “They hate me.”

“Does it matter?” He inquired, “There is nigh anything you can do to change it.”

“But, it’s unfair.”

“Of course it is, but you do the best you can with what you have,” he leaned in from within his grey cloak to look straight into the boy’s eyes, “which is a hell of a lot better than most.”

They travelled the rest of the way on foot, all the way up until the very boundary of the forest. The old man sighed as he sat on a rock and peered into the dark expanse before him. The boy seemingly ignored, or failed to see, all of the foreboding that formed a pencil-thin line across their path. He was already on the other side, grazing the rocky hillside for this fabled plant his Master was after. After a while, he realized he was alone and turned back in confusion. The old man remained where he sat, sadly watching the younger at work.

“I nigh can enter here, I’m afraid,” he said. “They will kill me on sight.”

“Who?”

“The Daelish, boy! Do you listen?”

He looked around a bit alarmed at the idea of someone, or something, attempting to harm trespassers. On sight, no less.

The man exhaled, “I will set up camp here on the southern side. You will have to go into the woods and find the herb I need.”

It was rather matter-of-fact, and Zevran turned back into the darkened woods with a little more caution than before. If something would attack the old man, what would stop it from attacking him? “How far should I go?”

“Be back by sundown,” was his answer. The Master was already pulling out supplies from his bag and pointed to the sack on the boy’s shoulder. “Come drop your things. You nigh need them there.”

He did as instructed and hesitantly returned to the hillside. The tree canopy shrouded the sky above him, dimming his path, and the growth within was so dense, he could not possibly see anything on the other side. Keen to keep on task, Zevran searched the ground for mossy shoots that preferred grey boulders to the red ones. The space seemed eerily quiet around him. There were no birds or squirrels scampering about. A broad wind overhead was the sole sign the trees were alive at all, dropping a lonely leaf here and there. Occasionally, a crackling twig off in the distance would spook the boy, but every time he glanced up to the mythical monsters that laid in wait, he would see nothing but the evergreen thicket obscuring his view. The afternoon was a failure, and Zevran returned empty-handed for all his effort. The old man seemed relieved as he emerged around the corner though, rewarding him with a root stew he made from various bushes they pilfered on their excursion.

The following day, and then the ones after that, they trailed the edge of the forest. The Master was cautious not to tread too noisily or too close to the tree line, allowing his assistant to venture into the darkness instead. The novelty was beginning to wear off for the Daedric child, and Zevran wondered if the supposed danger was a scam to make him inspect at his surroundings more warily. Perhaps it was really bears the Master was fearful of. Or more of those farmers who threatened him with a pitchfork.

On the fourth day, he was getting bored. The leaf of this plant curled under itself and had delicate hair extending from it. The stalk was easily crushed if handled improperly, and he was to carefully pull the plant up with its roots intact, otherwise waste his endeavor. The gray boulders seeped special minerals, and specimens tended to find their home on the north sides of these stones where they might be warded from too much midday sun.

The boy kicked a small rock in frustration. These things did not exist, he decided.

Just then, he heard a rustle ahead of him. Stilling himself, Zevran looked into the direction his stray rock tumbled. There was the thin stalk of a tree and beside it stood a tall, narrow figure. He caught the dark eyes peer down at him with a sort of stern expression, and the child immediately backed up. The person stood well above him, a wide gate tracking forward, its gaze never leaving the now frightened boy as his pulse quickened and he turned to run.

“Master!” He called out frantically but fell to his knees as something hit him from behind.

Night fell and Zevran roused to the smell of something on the fire. He groaned softly as he pulled himself up subtly only to realize he could not move. Straining to view around in the darkness, he hoped that perhaps this was a dream and he would awake any moment to see the old man preparing supper. He was hungry and the forest was colder than it appeared at night. Mustering up the courage, he rolled himself into a ball and sat up.

Before him were two figures sitting by the fire chatting. At least he assumed they were chatting, as he had no idea what they were saying to one another. The boy noted a hare strewn across the flame on a low stick. His stomach grumbled.

The pair stopped their dialog and turned to him. Both held dark, large eyes atop long, slender faces. Zevran recognized the one he saw earlier and nearly swallowed his tongue. The fire cast a more ominous aura about them too, heightened by a series of thin lines running down the side of their cheeks. They both had long, dark hair tied back with leather chords. They were dressed differently as well, but not in the way past stories by the old man had impressed on the boy. If these were the “savages” his Master spoke of, they looked nothing like he imagined.

They stared at each other for a good few minutes. The one on the left muttered something to Zevran’s captor on the right, resulting in a redirection of attention and a brief smile. The captor then leaned forward and spoke in a deep, male tone.

He blinked and gaped as the fellow said something he could not understand. The captor sat back up and pursed his thin lips. After a moment, he spoke again, this time in Antivan, “You are alone, child?”

Zevran snapped his mouth shut, his eyes widening. He wondered if he should say anything about the old man on the edge of the wood. The Master said he would be killed on sight if he entered. Shakily, he nodded.

The captor offered a smile, minor wrinkles flashing in the corner of his eyes. He picked at the hare over the fire to test its readiness, continuing his small talk, “What brings you to the edge of the Wood?”

The boy’s stomach rumbled again as he focused on the rabbit. Roots and berries were well and good on the road, but it was a week since he had a proper meal.

The other said something short to his friend, and the captor nudged up to see how distracted the child was. He retorted back and removed the meat from the pit. Before Zevran realized it, he caught a shadow hindering his view and momentary panic swept him when he saw the knife come down onto his wrist. The older fellow held him down by the shoulder and cut his binds clean before making his way back to the other side.

The captor began slicing chunks away from the bone, tossing the boy a leg. He caught it, but the meat was still too hot and he waffled for a moment until he could tolerate taking a bite. This earned a chuckle and further murmuring from the pair on the other side of the fire.

They let him eat, glancing back and forth to each other in a casual conversation. Zevran strained to listen to the foreign words, a few sounding vaguely familiar. How had the captor known to speak Antivan? How many languages could he speak?

The meal finished, the questions were refreshed, “How old are you?”

“Ten… this summer.”

“And you are alone?” He repeated.

“Yes,” he lied.

“You are without supplies, wandering the Wood alone.” The tone suggested the captor did not believe him, although he decided not to press further upon Zevran’s affirmation, “Do you come from the village?”

“No,” he blurted, but stopped himself before levying too much information. Searching for his thoughts in the dark, he glanced back across the fire, “My father is in the village. We’re returning to Antiva City by Quintus Road.”

“That is quite a long way,” He nodded knowingly. “And where are you hailing from?”

“From Marnius near Tevinter,” he answered. In a way, this was true. They did start their journey into the forest from the west after routing through several towns along the way. The Master desired to deliver a package to an old friend all the way across the Highlands and chose to use this trip as the best opportunity.

“And do you often wander away from your parents when they are nigh mindful?”

He gulped, “I was looking for something.”

“Oh?” His curiosity was peeked, and the captor leaned into the flame. His cream complexion lit up in full view showcasing the delicate markings lining the length of his left cheek. To Zevran, his skin appeared almost grey in the forest where they first met, “And what are you looking for?”

“A root – a plant,” he quickly corrected himself.

“And what use would your father have with this plant from the Wood?”

He had no answer. He did not fully understand why he was tracking the forest in the first place other than to satisfy the musings of an old man. He chewed on his lip straining for a reply, “He wants to sell it.”

The captor studied the child, his visage cool and intimidating, although it was also strangely calming to the boy. Zevran was unsure what to make of the man’s lack of response and worried that he may have been caught. After a moment, the captor leaned back to stoke the fire, returning his gaze in a more relaxed position, “Tell me about this plant. Perhaps we could help you find it, and then you can return to your father.”

This seemed strangely fortuitous to the boy, who rattled off its description to his new friends. They chatted for some time into the night until he felt sleepy. He asked them all sorts of questions. Did they live in the forest? How many languages did they speak? What was on their faces? The innocence struck a chord with them, resounding in a hardy laugh and banter between the pair in their alien dialect. They were, in fact, Daelish. They lived with their families deep within the Wood and hunted near the boarder during this time of year. The markings were tattoos, religious symbols telling of their pasts and futures, who they were going to be, and when they would die. The captor’s name was Talli and his hunting partner was called Nim. When the boy responded with his own name, renewed laughter barked into the night.

“Nigh is that even a Daedric name!” Talli teased.

"My mother had a Daelish name,” Zevran replied, pulling himself into a pout. Were he pressed any further though, he would be unable to recall it.”

The captor stemmed his desire to goad, “Tell me, have you nigh truly heard of the Daelish before now?”

Zevran could not tell the complete truth or else expose his lie, “Only that you are an old people, and the Shem fear you.”

They both chuckled grimly at the word “Shem.”

After a moment, “And, child, do you know why the Shem fear us?”

“No.”

“Hm.” The conversation seemed to die after that. Talli recommended the youngster rest if he was to return to the village tomorrow in a happy state. The pair offered him a cover to keep warm; a thin but well woven cloth made of a soft, dark material. The fabric made him think of his mother all the more, wondering if she was really from Antiva at all. Perhaps the stories were just that, and the Master’s fear was actually a ruse.

The next morning, Zevran awoke to a smoldering fire pit. The cloth was still wrapped around his tiny frame, but when he searched for its owner, the boy discovered he was completely alone. The angle of the sunlight overhead suggested it wasn’t even midday yet, and he would have to get going if he was to attempt the journey back to the edge of the woodlands. He thought better than to take the blanket lent to him, and neatly left it folded on the rock he slept next to the night before.

The Master was wise enough to instill in the boy a good sense of direction, and after he positioned himself, he headed south again. The forest no longer seemed so menacing after spending a night within it. The wind was soothing and sort of reminded him of the constant hum he heard at the Chantry. He trailed the hillside down to a brook remembering then to follow the gradient back into the valley.

It was not long before he caught sight of his friends. Nim kept a position high on the slope of the hill, his direction to the south. Talli was focused on some growth below along the edge of the water. He could see more clearly in the daylight that both carried a longbow strapped to their chest and a large knife on their side. Their clothing was simple, yet had more craftsmanship than it appeared. Neither really wore tunics, rather their shirts merged into snug grey vests, the textile of which had a slight sheen that seemed otherworldly to the child. They had guards over their upper legs and well-fitted boots, and taken together they seemed to blende into the background of the forest. As wary as he was, Nim noticed Zevran approach with a flick of his pointed ear. He swiveled with the skill of a predator to survey the ravine.

“You are awake,” Talli glanced over from his perusal of the pond and held up a leafy prize, “I think I found your plant.”

Zevran lit up and clamored over to the older Daelish man’s side. The leaf curled under itself just like he described and the slender roots poked from beneath the man’s gloved hand. Gently, the boy retrieved it, only latently recalling how to wrap it in the handkerchief he knotted around his trouser belt.

“Thank you!” The boy chimed. His task was almost finished, “I must know how to repay you.”

“Go home,” Talli replied. His statement rang with a sense of finality, “Nigh wander away from your father and into the Wood again.”

Zevran got the hint, but still gathered a childish grin as he looped the wrapped herb back into his belt. Hastily, he waved to them with promises to mind his parents better and began the long walk back to the valley.

“One more thing,” Talli cautioned, his voice trailing after him along the creek, “Nigh eat this plant, no matter what anyone says to you.”

Zevran paused, puzzled by such an odd suggestion. The old man surely had no reason to eat it, “Why?”

“It is poisonous,” The Daelish warning was suddenly very serious. “It will kill you.”

His smile left him, but the notion was just as quickly forgotten as he resumed his course home. Zevran closed his eyes and smiled at the idea that this ordeal was over. Looking ahead, he could see the forest edge in sight and each step was made with greater confidence. He had claimed his conquest and returned victorious. How the Master would be proud!

He tracked the tree line for another mile before catching sight of the old man. The grey cloak hung off him like a beggar, his scruffy beard and white curled hair was housed beneath a wide brimmed hat. Zevran could not hide his excitement as he called and waved out across the creek that separated them. His voice echoed over the valley, and the elder turned to face him with shock.

“Boy!” He called, some concern flitting his aged features as he paced the bank, “Where in Andraste have you been!”

“You nigh would believe it! I have the plant!” He pulled out his trophy as proof. The old man at first seemed overjoyed, but the reverie rapidly faded as he focused on something else on the hill beyond.

Zevran turned back and realized his mistake. Following him was the hunting pair, their lanky figures gripping the forest like saintly guardians. Nim already had his bow drawn, a needle-like arrow in his cross-hairs ready to strike. Talli stood to one side, his gaze penetrating the small boy with wordless apprehension. Or was it disappointment?

Suddenly, a shame filled Zevran the likes he had never felt before. He lied to these people and coerced them into helping him in the process. It may not have been his intent to deceive, as he thought he might protect his Master with the story, but they did not know that. With uncertainty, the boy began to back into the creek, sorrowful eyes pleading to the Daelish pair that they might leave the old man alone. In truth, this man was like a father. They did come to the Wood from the west. And he was charged to find the plant. Each step he took seemed to take for ages, the sentinels on the hill never stirring, and before he knew it, Zevran felt the dry rocky shoreline again beneath his feet.

“We need to make haste away from here.” He felt the tug on his shoulder and silently obeyed. “Come!”

Just as briefly as he had seen them, the pair disappeared back into the brush. For days, however, the boy watched their path diligently all the way back to Antiva City, convinced they would return. Although he never saw them again, their presence haunted his memory for some years after.


	3. Part One Chapter Three

The boy was concerned about the content of the Master’s home after that. Were all the drawings in the tomes he marveled over representing florae just as menacing as the one he acquired in the Wood? The delicate leaves and soft roots he wrapped in cloth did not seem dangerous. When they returned to the City, he never saw the plant again. It simply disappeared, but the warning kept hampering at the child’s mind. Suddenly, he was very cautious about his supper. The Daelish hunter said if he ate the plant, he would die.

One evening, as lessons came to a close and the Master was dosing over a book, Zevran plucked the courage to ask about the location of this herb to ease his own conscience.

“Why do you care?” The old man inquired with a sense of scrutiny.

The boy glanced over unsure, “Is it poisonous?”

The Master sat straight on his stool to stare down at Zevran. His beard contorted in some thought he was not willing to let go before slowly uttering his question, “And what would you do with this information if I told you the truth?”

He did not know how to reply. What was he supposed to do with such information?

His silence seemed to encourage the elder, “Plants have many purposes, boy. They are nigh just to eat or to refine into wine. For example, the Manuri Tribe in the heart of Qunari Lands uses a moss to treat deep wounds after battle. Without it, their warriors would succumb to exhaustion soon after.”

He pulled at a book already open on his easel and turned the thick pages to a drawing of the moss he was describing. “This same plant, if ingested together with another benign herb, will inflict a flux upon the consumer such that if this person nigh seeks treatment quickly, he will likely die.”

“Why would he eat it then?”

“He nigh would,” The old man smirked, “Knowingly.”

Zevran lacked experience to understand such sinister intonations. Instead, he turned back to the drawing with renewed curiosity, “Why does the moss do that?”

“That is a very astute question. Tomorrow, I will show you.”

The next morning, the boy was pulled away from his normal chores and told to follow the old man into another small chamber beyond the front sitting area where the Master entertained his guests. Zevran felt both nervous and excited to have another room open to him in the villa. Drawing back a dark red curtain, the nook revealed itself. Dried plants hung on narrow strings above them, a small window to one side flushing the space with light. In the far corner stood a tidy desk, upon it a series of vials with handwritten labels.

He was ordered to touch nothing as the old man rummaged about in a cabinet to one side. In a moment, he retrieved himself and presented Zevran with a stone bowl, a pestle and a ginger root.

“I need this crushed. Finely.”

The boy nearly dropped bowl it was so heavy and motioned over to the windowsill to regain balance. The root had long lost its character, and the shriveled husk started to flake off on his fingers as he lifted it up to the light.

“It is just ginger,” the Master huffed. “Now, it needs to be crushed, boy.”

Zevran did as told, although the job took more effort than he initially assumed. Once finished, he lugged the stonework back to the desk, now cleared and covered with a set of dried, thorny stalks from a plant he knew but could not place. The elder exchanged an expectant glare and pointed at the cuttings, “Now, I need the thorns removed. Keep the shoots though. We can use them later for supper.”

Surprise flitted up to the old man snickering at his own joke. The boy peeked around the room again as he made his way back to the window, unsure if he really wanted to know what the purpose of the herbs above him were for. Carefully, he excised the thorns and placed them into another bowl and then set the stalks aside. Just as quickly as he finished, the old man reclaimed both parts of the plant to his desk.

Then the real work began. The master lit a candle within a large brass container lined with holes and set a flat, metal plate upon it. To Zevran, it looked like a simple incense lantern. A small pile of black powder to one side was mixed with water on the plate until it began to bubble. As the substance heated, the old man added a dollop of ginger powder, moments later pulling out a single thorn with a set of tweezers, gently squeezing it over the brown goo below until several drops fell. He promptly removed the plate from its heat source and poured the contents into a small stone flask. 

“Come here,” the old man motioned, filling the remainder of the flask with more water and swirling the mixture.

A pang of something ominous stirred in the boy’s stomach. His attention was rapt the moment the old man lit the candle, noting every subtle movement he made from his position by the window. But, when summoned, Zevran suddenly did not want to be there anymore. Against his better instincts, he emerged by the Master’s side.

The elder turned to the boy, handing over the stone flask, “Drink this.”

His hazel eyes just about doubling, Zevran looked down into the contents of the cup. The brown liquid churned, and he could smell the stale woody note. He gulped and jerked back up to the old man with a shake of his head.

He showed no emotion, but his words were deadly solemn, “You will drink this, or I will force you.”

Tears welled up. The boy could not fathom what he could have done to work up such ire in the Master. All he wanted to know was if the plant from the Wood was as dangerous as the hunters made it out to be. He whimpered, “Please, no.”

“You wish to know the truth of such things,” he raised scruffy eyebrows, “and now you will.”

He sincerely did not want to take the elixir. As the flask was raised to his lips, waterworks flowing down his high cheeks, the boy continued to stare utterly silent pleas to the old man. The taste was bitter and left a lingering sense of charcoal in the back of his throat. The boy backed away from the desk gagging on the granular remains, heaving from the knowledge over what he had just done.

“Go out into the garden,” The old man pointed. He looked over nonchalantly as a knock came at the door. “I will come get you later.”

Normally, the boy would be expected to answer, but he was grateful to not have that option. The man waited for the child to back out slowly into the hallway before making his own steps to greet his guest. 

Zevran ran to his room, closing the door. Panic encased him with deep dread, wondering what he just consumed and what was going to happen to him. The Daelish warnings rang in his ears like Chantry bells as he dug under his pillow for the only family item he had. Clutching the gloves closely, he cried and huddled on his covers, each huff seemingly drawing more life out of him than the next breath carried. It was a mistake to ask such questions, he admonished to himself. He trusted too openly.

He was going to be sick, he could already feel the argument in his stomach. Sitting up, dizziness took over his senses, however, and the boy never made it to the door.

Groggily, he opened an eye. He was lying on his side in bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead and every muscle was tense and sore. Slowly nudging the covers off his torso, Zevran latently caught motion beyond him in a chair. The old man turned to him, closing the book he was reading.

“I told you to go to the garden earlier.” The Master motioned to the floor, “You made such a mess instead.”

All he could do was grunt his angst. He thought he was dying. Licking chapped lips, it took all of his energy to sit up. The old man was already by his side, offering a cup of water. Little eyes flicked open, and the child backed away as best he could into the corner.

“Boy, stop!” the Master scolded, pulling him over, “It is just water, and it is the best thing to take after consuming raften weed.”

The weed? That was a common stalk Zevran pulled in the garden. It tended to grow in bunches during the spring, and the boy always had to be careful not to catch his hands or clothes on the thorns, else rip deep cuts into him that would later threaten with infection. Unsure, he took the mug with both hands and tested the contents.

The old man was not finished. He drew out a cube of some green substance from the table beside him. Quickly with a paring knife, he peeled a narrow sheet of skin from its surface and handed it to the boy with a demand, “Chew on this. It will help your stomach.”

He mouthed the word ‘no,’ but it was immediately rebuffed.

“You will eat this or you get nothing!” The old man was stern this time, pushing the remedy at the child. He wanted to fight, but all the strength in him was fading and he had little choice than nibble on the herb shoved in front of him.

Satisfied, he sat back in his chair, saying as he went, “Raften weed is common enough. If consumed, it will cause much discomfort, but,” he nodded to the boy for added effect, “I can assure you, it is nigh lethal.”

“Why!” He could barely cough out the feeling of betrayal.

“Because, boy.” The Master paused, wording carefully and earnestly, “You are to understand your poisons if you are to make them.”

So the hunters were right. The herb must have been a poison. He shook himself from the corner, straining around to find some sort of hasty exit. But the old man continued, “You want to know why I had you search for this herb in the Wood, yes?”

“No.” He changed his mind. He did not want to know. He wanted things as they were before.

“The Daelish have used Ma’an for, some say, thousands of years. Probably before the Shem ever even came here. It is a rare plant that only grows under boulders of lime and is used in special ceremonies, usually to commemorate the dead.”

The story quieted him, but it was still not enough.

“It is deadly, but only if taken in copious amounts,” the old man acknowledged, “For them, it is used to invoke visions that might serve to help them – consumed with care, of course.”

“Why did you want it?” The boy muttered.

The old man breathed deeply, brows arching high on his wrinkled forehead, “I have a client who wanted it.”

It dawned on Zevran then the real reason for all of the visitors. They came and went to either drop items off for the old man, or more commonly, to retrieve items cleverly hidden within their coats.

“He wanted a special elixir for a shaman far to the south,” The Master snuffed a laugh, “To be honest, I nigh know if it will work.”

The entire evening, the old man sat with the boy as he lay nearly doubled over in his bed. Three times he was given the green herb, the last time it was forced down him because he refused, convinced it was making the cramping worse. But, by the following day, as the boy emerged from his room still sore but feeling better, the old man stood in the hallway to greet him with his friend’s maid in the kitchen. Zevran was given some time to rest until he felt well enough to resume his chores.

In the mean time, lessons continued as normal, but the Master began to lecture on an entirely different subject matter. The old man actually worked for a living. The guests he received daily were his clients. And they came to him for a variety of reasons. Many were fairly benign, local and regional men of importance in need of remedies for common and obscure ailments alike. Most common people would head directly to the Chantry to find their cure in some form of prayer or magical offering, but the old man seemed to look down upon such response as superstition that tended to do more harm than good.

“Nigh let me speak ill of the Chantry, for there are some exceptional clerics in their Order, but most of it is a load of horse shit used to ease the mind of the already dying.”

“What about the Circle?” Zevran had only read of the mages, but it was enough to inquire.

He laughed, “The Circle nigh concerns themselves over such trifle nonsense.”

Others who came to the Master were of a completely different sort. These were agents, the old man said, whose job was to keep order in Antiva. There were a number of guilds that worked for the Royal Houses that dotted the City; political empires built upon centuries of manipulation and bloody warfare. The battlefield was not in the form of garrisons and armies, however. Sabotage, like merchantry, took finesse. Subtlety. The ongoing feuds took place behind closed doors, in bedrooms, and around the open forums of the City. The job of their Guild was to keep those Houses in line should another major conflict break out.

“Our kingdom is at peace because of the Crows.”

For these people, the old man made much more sinister concoctions. These elixirs did not all kill or maim, though. Many were fashioned to urge honesty from people and others to coerce. The range of uses for these herbs seemed as endless as the drawings of them in the archive to the boy.

“How do you know the potions work the way you want?” Zevran asked hesitantly.

“It should be obvious.” The old man scoffed, “You study it. You try them – in their safe forms – and you work out their properties.”

Often through trial and error. The old man went on to tell the boy about some of the mishaps he got himself into when he was younger. He collected books and cuttings to help guide him to make better, more refined substances. Over the years, he became the sort of expert, or Master as most would call him, because of his vast knowledge of the subject. Everyone came to him. And it became a form of obsession for the old man, as he desired to better understand the beautiful and deadly complexities nature had to offer.

Over the following months, Zevran would continue his daily routine. He had a new appreciation for the visitors as they came and went, like he was in on their little secret. Still, he was advised to keep quiet and was banished from the sitting area once he offered drinks. Except now, he would avidly listen in on the conversations without his Master’s knowledge. 

At least at first he did. Most of the banter was tedious and boring to the boy. They always started with a story about the Old City and the people they knew back then. The wealthier appearing visitors seemed to want to talk about their greatness to the old man, perhaps offering a reason why he should help them. If the coin was not persuasive, that is. Other, more discrete, visitors chose not to chat much at all. They came and went with simple conversation and with no coin to exchange.

One such quiet guest was Vinter. When Zevran first came to the old man, Vinter was one of the few who acknowledged him, always leaving with a quick wink on his way out the door. He was tall, slender and middle aged. He had shoulder length brunette hair, now starting to grey around the crown. He carried no beard and was well kept, wearing only dark shades of russet linen and leather.

One day, curiosity got the better of him, and Zevran asked as Vinter was escorted to the landing, “Are you a Crow?”

The Shem stopped and turned back to the boy. His smile was gone, but he did not seem angered, “That is an interesting question, why do you ask?”

Zevran shrugged, regretting his query. Red reached his cheeks, and when he did not continue to walk away, the boy felt pressed to answer, “Master says that Guild members sometimes come here.”

“Oh? And if I were to tell you, what would you do with such information?”

The boy nudged up to the response, recalling a similar question from the old man. Giving a confused look, he mumbled, “What does that even mean?”

A passive smile returned to his scarred face, “It means that if you must ask such questions, you must have a reason to know such answers.”

A full season passed before he saw Vinter again.


	4. Part One Chapter Four

The old man seemed content to show Zevran more about the herbs than what was in the archive drawings. Each night was spent lecturing about the history of his stock, starting first with the entire contents of his cabinet. The boy was tasked with cleaning and organizing it, which required not only careful handling, but also knowledge of what he was handling so that he could properly put it away. The Master seemed to keep everything from jars of preserved lizards to century old mushrooms he said he collected from a healer in Tevinter thirty years prior. Some of the show-and-tell merged with history lessons of their own, outlining the damage the idea of some elixirs could impose on a person, or even a kingdom.

“The Third Dynasty of the Orlesian Empire fell to ruin by the utter mention of a poison. The thought of it consumed the Empress’ very being such that she spent of her entire life in search of it.”

Zevran turned back to the old man, “What was so special about it?”

He grinned, “Ah, it is a very rare substance, I can tell you! Gleaned from the fangs of wyverns.”

“Dragons?” He had read about those kinds of creatures in the tomes. Giant, ancient beasts that roamed the mountains to the South.

“Nigh quite, but similar. They are smaller and wider in gate. And they have quite a ferocious bite, or so I hear.”

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” The boy reached back into the cabinet for a jar he assumed contained something dead.

“A dragon? No.” The old man scratched his beard, “But I have seen a griffin!”

Most of the lessons contained practical information for, at the very least, survival sake. It served no purpose to use an herb that might cause unintentional harm or other consequences. Either the poisonmaker, or floraesen as the Master called himself, understood what the herb did or not. Errors in this business meant bad things, which in most cases was the death of the floraesen himself, either by his hand or by his client’s.

Zevran was made to remember common plants as well. While unusual herbs were at the heart of these brews, it was the common ones that held the potion together, so to speak. For example, ginger and charcoal were common bases because they masked the flavor of bitter ingredients. Rosewood and sandalwood produced lovely smells and could be confused for incense if burned. Ground up bone was tasteless and used to give texture to some mixtures or to create pastes for external application. Beer and wine, although fermented, could be used to help accelerate the effects of a potion because they also happened to cloud the mind when drunk in enough quantity.

The amount of a given herb was also critical. It was a waste of precious material to use it all in a single go. In most cases, less went a long way, especially if the intent was not to kill the subject. However, most clients did not know the difference, and so the Master would only make enough for a single use.

“But the vials are so big,” Zevran picked up one of the flasks and peered at the contents inside. The bottle resembled a glass tube nearly the length of his hand.

“Do be careful! These are expensive.” The old man gingerly retrieved the container and continued, “You may dilute the mixture with the same effect, as long as you use all of it, or leave the vial half empty.”

The boy was eventually taught how to test the contents of some potions. Zevran recalled his last adventure with the powders and backed away from the desk.

“You nigh drink it.” The old man stuck out his tongue and pointed, “You test a little and then spit it out.”

The purpose of this exercise was two fold. First, it was to reassure the floraesen that the contents were in the right balance. It was like cooking to the Master: too much of one thing could ruin the entire dinner. Second, subtle textures and tastes sometimes could pinpoint the potency of the elixir and how much it may need to be diluted.

There was a third, indirect reason too, “If taken over a long enough time, you become slightly resistant to such things.”

The final note seemed like good logic to the boy. Yet, it was the follow up comment that caught him off guard, “You never know when someone might attempt to try the game on you.”

All summer, the boy cataloged, memorized, and crushed hundreds of items in the Master’s back room. When he was sent out to the market to gather ingredients, it started to make more sense, and by proxy, Zevran became shrewd about the quality of the product he was ordered to purchase. Every day, odd cuttings would appear on the desk as well, delivered by the many discrete visitors at the door who would return some days later with an expectant smile and small talk. The stock never seemed to shrink despite the boy’s tireless efforts, which at times was overwhelming. For every item he put away, something else would replace it on the desk.

But by late fall, the old man had a back room cleaned and filled with freshly powdered ingredients, organized and clearly marked by his little assistant. He offered a deep sigh and nod of approval one day as he walked in to inspect the space. This meant more to the boy than any praise before or since.

Not all toxic cuttings tasted bad, as Zevran found out on his own. Some were sweet, while others had no taste at all. And the effects were all varied. Most just made him feel ill, but some had other palpable side effects. There was one leaf the Master called ‘carnassi’ that made him feel dizzy when chewed on. He was amused at the slightest subject the old man brought up at lessons that evening and then slept far too late the next morning. There was another white powder noted only as ‘si’ in a book he found that spoke of its ability to heighten the senses. After dabbing a bit on his tongue, he decided he did not like the taste and spat it out. But that small amount was enough to keep the boy awake for three days. Afterward, he was careful to keep that powder far from reach. 

Zevran was sure the old man knew he was messing around with the substances, but he chose not to say anything apart for one small cupboard in the far corner the boy cleaned out early that fall.

“Nigh, under any circumstances, try the contents of these vials,” He warned. The old man said there was no need to experiment as the knowledge of them was handed down over the centuries. They were concentrated, for one, and secondly, they were all incredibly deadly. Tu’un, a Daelish poison for example, killed on contact and was commonly painted on their arrows. The Master managed to get his hands on some through a smuggler in Nevarra many years prior and mused that the thick black toxin was likely derived from a snake. Another snake venom, originating from the white Antivan Shal, slowly stopped the functions of the body over the course of days before finally taking the heart. There was an antidote to go with that one, but it must be delivered to the subject early to have any use.

The idea of an antidote was new to the boy, “Can you reverse the affects of most potions?”

“No,” The old man sniffed, “But you can sometimes lessen them or speed in the recovery.”

Winter was approaching and one day, the old man fell ill himself. A cough crept up that would not leave him for some weeks. Zevran grew worried, as this was the first time the elder showed any kind of weakness outside of the cane he always used. The boy was told to turn away all visitors at the door, and pacing the hallways, the days were far too long as his lessons were also temporarily paused until the Master felt better.

On a cool afternoon, the old man called for the boy from the back room. Earlier, a messenger came to the door and dropped off a parcel with a note attached, and Zevran delivered it without question. When he emerged, the elder was seated on his stool near the tidy desk and handed a vial to the boy.

“I need you take this to the address on the note. Treat it with discretion and nigh let anyone see you.”

“What is it?” The innocence echoed in the small chamber.

“That is nigh your concern,” the Master replied flatly. “Deliver it and return straight here.”

What else was he to do? The boy at least saw it as a way to get out of the villa for a while. He was further instructed to find dinner on the way back with some coin in his pocket. He bound out of the building and into the street. The note neatly showed an address near the docks on the other side of the City. He had never been to the docks before. Perhaps this could be fun.

Master Naheeme’s villa was tucked into a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the City. It had a market corner, two wells and an open forum all its own, which copied many districts that encircled the main city center. From the hillside steps, Zevran could see the Chantry towers in the distance just south of the grand Veshnee Palace. His address would to take him farther east near the water, where a cluster of plaster sat low among a backdrop of wooden masts and the blue sea. 

The cobbled streets were narrow and interconnected like a spider web. Canals separated the districts with tall, arched bridges, and Zevran peered over the edge of one to watch a gondola heavy with its freight slowly glide beneath. He could hear the bells overhead as he approached the spires of the Chantry, and people engulfed the streets as the midday mass had just ended. Entourages of Shem women travelled together along the main thoroughfare; their flamboyant dresses billowed like flags held together by golden belts and bangles. Their hair was curled and weaved into intricate knots, and they laughed carelessly at their private banter. Merchants, clad in white save dark headdresses and beards, were already at their stalls for the start of evening trade. Spice wafted through the air.

The roads all had a slight gradient toward the sea and as the boy progressed on his path, he noticed the crispness of his surroundings change. The white washed buildings were tanning, the walls more worn. The streets were busy and crowded and the residents more swift about their business. Their clothing appeared to have amassed days of wear atop equally grimy faces, sweaty and salty from the afternoon activities. Loud calls erupted overhead and from the corners as various merchants waved for people to move aside. Moments later, a massive bull appeared bound by a harness to a cart behind it. The horns pointed downward at the boy, and in shock he narrowly skirted into an alleyway.

Zevran watched wide-eyed as the creature, its rider, and cargo passed. Then across the way into the connecting close, he caught a glimpse of something else that stopped him in his tracks. Two Daedric lads, a good several years older than him, were leaned up against the wall facing each other, chit chatting. They were thin, probably underfed, and tall with dark hair cropped at the tips of their pointed ears. For a moment, they sort of reminded him of the Daelish pair from the Wood, and the thought sent a pang of regret through him.

This sight would not seem so odd, except Zevran, in all his tiny years, had never really been around other Daedric folk. Not since he left the care of the Mothers had he played with others his age. He knew Daedric were in the outskirts of the City, but they were like faeries if he spotted them at all and only occasionally delivering messages to and from the villa and never other children. He stood agape, unable to move, continuing to stare until one of the pair caught sight of the boy.

The teen nudged up from his post and squinted across the alley. The expression was not a kind one and it managed to restart Zevran’s legs for him. He ducked back onto the main road and scampered around a few tall women precariously balancing baskets on their heads. One of the Shem threw a verbal barb his way for bumping into them. Nervously, the boy looked back at the curtains of their skirts and maneuvered with more caution. Reminding himself of his errand, he looked for a shortcut through the mob.

To his right, he saw his chance as another road opened. Quickly, he stepped aside and noted a set of sails climbing up between the stone walls in the distance. So centered on getting to his address, he failed to see the foot that tripped him.

He landed hard on the damp stone path, cursing on his way down. He heard movement to his side and peering up, the boy met two pairs of dark azure eyes leaning over him. The pair he saw earlier simultaneously chuckled, glancing back to one another before looking down at the Daedric child again. From Zevran’s perspective, they looked like brothers carrying a similar smile, fair complexion, and dirty linin to match. The one on the left, presumably the older, spoke first.

“Well you look out of place.” The teen gave a sly grin, the edges of his white teeth coming into view, “Are you lost, my friend?”

These two were not his friends, and Zevran gulped as he retrieved himself and began to back up. Focusing behind the pair, he could see the throngs of people on the main road oblivious to the danger in the quiet passage beside them.

The teen on the right smirked, “Ah, he nigh answers. Suppose he’s nigh Antivan, Fren?”

“I’m Antivan!” Zevran groused, snapping sharply back to the pair.

“Oh?” Fren perked up, taking a step toward him, “You nigh look Antivan.”

What was that supposed to mean? Zevran pulled a face at the affront instinctively, but could come up with nothing witty to say. His lack of response allowed the others freedom to goad.

“Look at you!” The younger poked, “So tidy. So clean. Where did you get these clothes?”

“He looks like a golden child,” Fren mused. “Golden hair, golden eyes. Perhaps you’re made of gold!”

The last comment felt threatening as both took a step toward the boy. Something strong in his gut told him to flee, and Zevran did just that. Bolting in the opposite direction toward the masts, he refused to look back but could hear the clopping on the flagstone telling him he was indeed being chased. Sliding out of backstreet, he tumbled onto the flat boardwalk of the dock. Out of breath, he looked up as the pair appeared. They slowed their run to a smooth swagger, smug grins copied on their faces as they looked over the boy like he was some sort prize. 

Instantly, Zevran was on his feet again and he dashed as fast as he could down the boardwalk. He needed to climb up onto something to get away. He needed to lose them. Several boatmen hollered as he weaved between the group pulling crates onto the dock. As the pair chasing the boy approached, one of the Shem foremen pulled the younger assailant aside roughly, kicking him out of the way.

Zevran ran into the open doors of a warehouse, hoping for cover. The dark space stank of brine and hay, and crates were stacked tall into the blackened ceiling above him.

“Oy!” Fren called from the doorway. Zevran jerked back from the shadow in sincere fear, “You chose a poor place to hide, my friend. You may as well come out.”

Catching his breath, the boy looked for options to escape. The stone building was deep, but he feared moving would make too much noise. Carefully, he huddled into the darkest corner and watched as his aggressor passed. The teen seemed rather certain of himself; canvassing the interior like it was habit to walk onto someone else’s property. He peered around the crates, opening one or two before he began to run out of patience.

“Come out, golden boy!” The teen hit one of the crates with the flat side of a stray wooden slat, sending a loud echoing boom throughout the warehouse that made the child lurch in his spot. After silence returned, he chewed his cheek and made a meek gesture; a way of changing tack, “We just want to talk.”

A shadow appeared in the broad entry, covering Fren partly in darkness. A deep, gruff tone emanated from the other side.

“Drop the stick and come out.”

Fren turned back and all the exuberance seemed to fade from his face replaced with a more sullen and defeated expression. Obeying, he turned toward the shadow.

“What are you doing?” Asked the voice. Zevran could hear the whimper of someone else with him, but dared not make a peep.

“Neh, having a look.” Fren said, looking down and away toward the darkness where Zevran lay hidden. Slowly, the teen traced the length of the wall until he met the frightened visage of the boy. Some of his indignant air returned, but it was quickly stamped out by the authoritarian figure looming in the doorway.

The voice continued, “I tell you week after week nigh to come down here, and week after week, you and your kin return to cause trouble. Your House nigh keep you busy enough?”

“We do we want,” His momentary belligerence he would later regret.

“Ah, well,” Zevran could hear the sneer, “Let us see if your guild master feels the same.”

Fren snapped up to the figure, “Wha – I’ll nigh go with you, Shem!”

“You will come with me, or I see your brother pays for it.” The shadow of the figure shook, and it struck Zevran who was with the man. The teen’s sullenness returned and slowly, angrily he walked out of the building and out of sight.

Zevran sat stock still for many minutes to follow, long after he knew the three were gone. He could not understand what made the teens so angry or why they wanted to chase him. Or why they said he did not appear Antivan. That was the most unsettling part. From his corner, he could see the sun begin to fade in the doorway, and eventually the boy emerged onto the now empty dock.

He tugged out the parchment and tried to gage where he was. The address was somewhere up dip from his current spot, and so hesitantly, the boy crept up the closest road. He could hear the bustle of the evening market ahead, but could not see the road that would lead him back into the crowds. A thunder came from behind him, and before gifting the chance to inspect his imagined doomed, Zevran ran as though lightening were to suddenly strike at any moment. Finally ahead him, he caught sight of the gate with a bowl and three stars in bronze, and he knew he was in the right place.

Catching his breath again, the boy wiped sweat from his forehead and peered around the garden. The high walls and shrubs seemed to shelter the space from the noise of the market beyond. The front door was narrow and tall, cuddled into the corner of a small veranda.

Zevran knocked and waited. No one came and after a moment, he reached for the knocker again just as the door pulled open to reveal a wave of tanned linen and leather.

The boy perked up, “Vinter!”

The Shem stared down at the child, concern making the scar on his chin accentuate. He looked around before addressing him, “Where have you been? Are you alright?”

He nodded, slightly unsure and more so when the man pressed again.

He leaned down, and grabbed Zevran’s hand, pulling it out to inspect it. In a hushed tone, he made eye contact, “Has someone hurt you?”

“No!” He protested and pulled away. Suddenly insecure, he wiped his hands on his cream tunic, only now realizing how dirty it was. He picked a stalk of hay from his shoulder before remembering his parcel. Carefully, he pulled out the vial and handed it to Vinter.

The Shem backed up into the shadow of the porch and pulled the boy with him. He sighed, “Come inside.”

Vinter offered him water and bread whilst pulling out a cloth to have the boy clean up with. The space was smaller than the villa, but tidy and carried a homely aura. The Shem disappeared after taking the vial from the boy but quickly appeared back at the door.

“Come. I’ll take you home.”

They walked back mostly in silence, the evening stars rising on the ocean. Zevran, although still a bit spooked from his previous encounter, felt safe with the Shem. The Master gave the impression that he must be some sort of guild member, and the boy spent most of his time studying his friend as they went. Vinter carried a quiet casualness about him. He was slender, yet apparent that he did not suffer from hunger. He carried a knife on his backside, the carved handle slightly obscured by his dark leather vest. He wore fitted buckled knee-boots with a hidden guard on his upper right thigh. His stride was swift and straight, but it also showed a hint of a saunter not too dissimilar from the one Fren carried back in the warehouse.

The boy retrieved dinner as told, offering some to his friend with a decline. Vinter watched in silence as Zevran bargained for the better meat. It was clear the merchant knew this little one and greeted him with a fake jeer and a story about how the boy was really robbing him. He should get lost before a Shem calls the guard, he mused before handing the child a linen wrapped package with a wink.

“Go! Off with you, you rodent!” 

The boy was hungry by the time they got home, and he raced to the entry with a massive sigh of relief.

“Vinter, you should see how Master is doing. I’m sure he would be pleased to see you!”

But as he turned around, Zevran realized he was alone again.

The Master did get better after some days, and the boy never told him about the mishap with the Daedric adolescents on the docks. The chores, the visits, and the lessons went on as normal and soon all was well again.


	5. Part One Chapter Five

The months – and then years – passed quickly. Zevran grew like a wheat stalk, although he would never be quite as tall as the old man. His lithe form was now lanky from growth; his golden hair he was allowed to keep a little longer than his chin as long as he tied it back neatly. Hollow cheeks had not yet filled out and were paired with a bright smile. His piercing golden eyes caught the attention of more than one passerby on their weekly excursions, too. The old man told the boy not to be so brazen and look at Shem straight on, for it might catch them off guard. Then they might stop to ask questions and no one wants to break in the middle of their journey to talk over petty, meaningless things with someone they care little about.

Zevran had a wide-eyed tenacity that was usually followed up by innocent, if not also intrusive, questions about everything. It was no longer enough to have an answer if there was no reason attached to it. At times, the Master would even seem a bit impressed with the creativity in the teen’s queries, although he would not always oblige them. The visitors no longer scared him either, and many regular clients Zevran knew by name and carried at least some minor rapport with. He was still charged with meeting their needs and then promptly exiting the room. However, after the Master finally caught on that he was listening to their private conversations, he was told to wait in the archive and read until called.

The old man was beginning to lose his sight, and eventually, Zevran was tasked with helping him put together some of the elixirs himself. This was quite a big day for him! After all, for years he could only sit back and watch and listen without ever getting to actually use the contents on the desk he always kept tidy. The old man would tell him to bring out the items he required and then occasionally quizzed him about how they would need to be prepared. His little assistant usually managed to answer correctly, although he was now at a loss about how to follow through on the instructions.

“It’s simple,” the Master spoke gruffly. Another cough had caught on in recent weeks. “Take the candle and light it and then place it in the lantern. It will provide just enough heat.”

He remembered now. The brass fittings were heavy, but the concave lid popped over the lantern with a click. Zevran then prepared the three powders: charcoal, limpseed, and reenwax. The refined liquid would be a sedative laced in brandy. He dared not ask why. The Master never told him about client requests.

In the evenings, Zevran began to scribe for the old man as well. The Master was finishing a manuscript. It was meant to be a summation of his life’s work, and the thick tome would be placed safely in the Chantry after he passed. The pages were originally written in Antivan, but with a late change of heart, the elder decided he would rather have it in Orlesian prose instead.

“Why change it now?” To do so meant the teen would have to scribe the entire thing over again, aside from the sketches.

He coughed and chuckled at the same time, “Because, boy. The Orelsian Chantry has more flavor for this sort of stuff. No, in Antiva, it would just sit in dust until Andraste resurrects herself!”

Zevran scoffed and turned back to the half-written page, “I would keep it for you. I’m sure I could do all sorts of things with it.”

From behind him, the boy could not see the tired smile on the old man’s face. With a nod, he said, “I’m sure you could.”

Things were going well for the lad. He came to the old man little better than a pauper, and even he understood that, or at least felt as though, he was fortunate to grow up to learn a distinguished trade. The unspoken acceptance of this agreement allowed the pair to finish the thesis, in Orlesian as requested, and stock the Master’s clientele long after the old man had gone completely blind.

Still, as the boy continued to pursue his Master’s endeavors, he wondered what would be next for him. Evening lessons seemed to get shorter as time went on. It was not that the old man had nothing to say, rather that he was tired earlier in the evening and required a good night’s rest in order to meet with visitors the next day. Instead, now that he was capable, Zevran was charged with preparing many of the requests of the day for him. A neat line of vials would await the elder the following morning.

Perhaps he could see himself become like the Master, the young lad mused. Perhaps this was what he was meant to do after he was plucked from a line of boys in a brothel at the heart of the City. He took pride with his chores, ignoring the eventuality that was to come. For, it was not until the death of the old floraesen, the Master, that the Daedric’s life would really begin.


	6. Part Two Chapter One

The knocker sounded hollow on the door. The lad stood there anxiously, hoping for some movement on the other side. He studied the wood carving on the front painted panel just above his head. He wondered what the bronze bowl meant.

A moment passed before the door harshly opened, but only a crack. Part of the face of a woman appeared above him. Her stern expression tightened at the sight of the Daedric on the porch.

“Is Vinter here?” He asked.

She pursed her lips. The young man was just shorter than her, straight straw hair hung at his narrow shoulders. She would have assumed him some kind of colleague were it not for his clean appearance and a naivety that oozed from his sincere, gentle eyes. She peered up toward the gate before slamming the door closed.

“NO!” Zevran slapped the knocker, “Please answer! I need to see Vinter! Please!”

Biting his lip, he backed away. This was the first and only place he thought to go. The lad glanced around the small garden, wondering now what he should do. His waffling was abated though as the door unlocked again, this time revealing his request.

The middle-aged Shem faced out onto the veranda, and he could sense something was wrong. He demanded, “Why are you here?”

“Master,” tears were already welling. “He nigh rouses. I’ve tried everything I know, but nothing works!”

Vinter’s expression slowly hardened at the implied issue and after some silence, he directed toward the youngster again, “Stay here. I’ll be out in a moment.”

And after a moment, he returned. They hurried up the whitewashed cobbled steps from the docks to the Grand Mile to the quiet neighborhoods and canals lining the City. The midday heat burned this event into the boy’s mind like a brand. He stood tentatively in the hallway as his friend went to check on the Master.

It was true. Master Philippe Naheeme – the great floraesen of Guidain House – had passed. Vinter entered the archive where the elder still sat leaning on his easel. Wisps of his white curled hair encased his face like a blanket. The writing feather was still firm in his grasp. He appeared asleep, but the visitor knew better. Subtly, he leaned over the old man to listen for a breath he knew had long left this plane.

Zevran went to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. The reality had not yet taken hold. Mortality seemed like only a cautionary tale unraveling from the many books he read rather than the ultimate truth that it was. He pulled at the delicate gloves beneath his pillow and played with the knotted cuffs while he waited. He was too young when his mother left to remind him that all things eventually expire. The memento was like a gift and that he might one day see her again, even if deep down he knew that to be a lie.

“Gather your things.” Vinter spoke quietly and calmly to the boy from the doorway. He heard the finality in his statement and could see the way it struck him. Zevran pulled his knees close and began to cry. The Shem stood there for a moment, a conflicted expression crossing him as he found himself drawn to the teen’s side like he would have his own child. He reached around the Daedric’s shrouded shoulders, a consoling gesture to prod him into action, “He was old. But he lived a good life. A long life. This is all that any of us could ask for.”

He put all of his belongings together in a small cloth sack. In it, he included the familial gloves, a clay mouse he used to play with the cat in the garden on summer evenings, several parcels of clothing, and two books. Before he left, Zevran also managed to sneak into the back room and take the copper lantern. Something inside him figured he should care for it in the old man’s absence. 

The events leading away from the Master’s home seemed to pass all at once. The pair returned to the City, first stopping at a neighbor’s and then the Chantry. Vinter approached the first Sister he encountered in hushed tones, quickly garnering an audience with someone far more important. Zevran was left in the Grand Hall to idly roam; yet instead, he felt content to just sit in a back pew and listen. The remnant echo of the morning mass hummed steadfastly on. It reached out and down the long court, out the open golden gates and into the streets beyond. With it was a message meant to bring comfort, though it he could not help how empty it made him feel in the moment.

Draw your last breath, my friends  
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
Rest at the Maker’s right hand  
And be forgiven.  
-Trials 1:16

A firm hand grasped his shoulder and the boy twitched up to Vinter’s voice, “Come. You can stay with me for a while until we figure out what to do with you.”

Unbeknownst to Zevran, there was, in fact, much discussion about what should be done with him. Far more than he would have assumed for the simple fact that no one knew who he was. Despite being an active and constant figure in the eight and some years with the Master, the boy was considered little more than a servant. The elder left plenty of documents. He was to be burned and the ashes placed in the Chantry Vault alongside many other great Masters of his aptitude. His belongings and, specifically, the contents of his archive and backroom were to be moved to Val Royeaux and housed in Chateau de la Loire. The Guidain House already owned his property as well as the maid lent to him on occasion. Even the cat was re-gifted a home with his neighbor. Although she was old too, she could still catch a mouse.

Missing from this list of last wishes and requests was any mention of where his little assistant should go in his passing, let alone to whom he even belonged. Vinter felt compelled to clarify on the teen’s behalf, since there was no one to claim him.

“What boy?” Before Vinter stood a man he once considered a colleague. Gynn de Payne, the Guild Master of all the Houses east of the Veshnee, leaned on an ornately padded bench looking out onto a sunny balcony. He was slightly older than his friend with a few added meals to match. He was pondering over a scroll whilst smoking a pipe, preoccupied about something rather far away from this visitor.

Vinter mused more to himself than anyone, “Well, by now, he’s nearly a young man.”

“The knife-ear?” Gynn nudged up before refocusing on matters, “What of him?”

“What will happen to him?”

He shrugged, “Perhaps he will become a Crow, if he has fortitude.”

“You nigh can seriously consider throwing him to the Hounds.” Vinter looked skeptical. Entry into the Guild was not the same kind of apprenticeship, “He would nigh survive it.”

“So what! The problem will solve itself then, yes?”

This was not a satisfactory answer, and after a moment of silence, Gynn rolled up the scroll and pulled the pipe out of his mouth with a smirk, “You seem quite taken with him.”

“I’ve spoken with him on several occasions over the years. He seems bright.”

He was unimpressed, “And?”

“If trained properly, perhaps he can be of some use.”

He heard enough. The Guild Master pulled himself up from the sunny perch and made his way to a broad wooden desk inside. The contents of this letter demanded a reply. He directed as he inked a quill, “Yes, and what use would I have for an untrained assassin? I could do better picking some random pike from the docks.”

Vinter continued to lean on the bench, staring squarely into the back of his comrade’s round shoulders, “You and I both know how much Master Naheeme longed for a pupil.”

He paused as he tugged at some parchment before him, “Yes, and you and I know exactly what Master Naheeme thought of most people.”

Although the response was rather negative, Vinter still had enough rapport with his old colleague to levy a favor. For old time sake. Zevran would be spared the Hounds, a pet term for the indoctrination of the young and unsullied recruits that were often brought into the fold at half his age. Their tutelage was a far bloodier sport.

In the meantime, Zevran was allowed to the stay out of sight in Vinter’s home near Dockside. It was years since he last saw the place, after carelessly delivering a parcel and escorted back home. The interior was much like he remembered it, clean and small. The entry opened to a nook no bigger than the front porch with a stool to one side. Directly behind it was a table with four chairs and a hearth. To the right was a set of stairs and to the left, a storage room, yet half again the size of the ground floor, leading out to the side gate and cellar. Among the grain and peat fuel was where the boy could stay.

Vinter’s wife was not pleased about the prospect of an unexpected guest. They had little room as it was, and she argued they did not have enough coin to feed an extra hand. The truth, as Zevran could see it, was that she was not fond of his kind. Her response to him mirrored that of many of the Master’s clients, but he was disinclined to say anything then or now.

Instead he offered to help her, which to his surprise, was not well received either.

“Who do you think I am!” She exclaimed. Her delicate eyebrows arched as she pulled a disgruntled face, “Do I look like someone who takes from the hand of pikes?”

“Illa,” Vinter warned lowly.

A long, resentful tisk escaped her as she turned toward her husband and hissed, “Get rid of him. He’ll bring disease here.”

Vinter and Illa had two children: a son named Raphael, age six, and a daughter named Lina, age fourteen. Illa spent much of her time with Raphael, running errands for her husband as well as other activities unknown to the guest. This left their daughter to mind the house while she was away. Zevran saw Lina as a godly creature. To be fair, she was the first girl he ever properly met, and to him she was painfully beautiful. She had long brown hair tied into a braid over one shoulder. Her hollow cheeks matched her mother, yet she was clearly gifted her father’s broad smile. She had a loud voice that carried over the cacophony of her little brother’s screams when she often picked on him, hiding his toys whenever he was distracted. Their mother seemed exhausted after breaking up their fights before heading out the door again.

Illa gave the lad explicit instructions not to ever talk to Lina, lest he would like to awaken with missing parts. The threat, although far from civil, relayed the message, and he stayed as far away from her as he could, considering the size of their enclosure. Still, he allowed himself to mind his business while also secretly watch her as she did her chores.

Although he might have been bound by physical coercion, Vinter’s daughter paid no mind and was just as curious about the guest in return. After all, anything her mother hated was something obviously worth investigating. She would see how close she could sweep to him before he would look over uncomfortably, and with a meek smile, she would excuse herself before moving on to a different area. This was very confusing to the lad as he had little context of the game.

One day, Lina had enough of the silence and decided his bashfulness was not enough.

“Hi.”

Zevran was cuddled into an alcove he cleaned beneath a skylight in the storeroom. In his boredom, he pulled out one of the small books from his pack and read in the late mornings after everyone left. He snapped up in surprise and shut the cover with one hand in effort to hide it.

The girl stood there over him, the edge of her blue embroidered skirt just brushing up against his knee, causing him to subconsciously retract further.

“What’s that?” She asked innocently.

He did not know if he should answer, recalling the grave promise if he dared to disobey. The girl chose not to wait, however and leaned over, plucking the book right out of his lap.

“Oy!”

She halfhazardly flicked through the pages as she taunted him, “You can read?!” 

By now he was standing, hand outstretched and a cross expression gracing him, “Give that back!”

“Or what?” She retorted, raising a fine brow.

There was nothing he could do, and Zevran just stood there, staring at her with hope that she would acquiesce anyway. Lina held the book between her petite palms and turned more fully to him. They were the same height, their matched silhouettes covering the wall beside them. She pursed her lips and looked him over, taking a step closer. He took an equal step back. Another step and he hit the plaster wall.

She closed the gap, studying his face as she approached. The sunlight peeking through the window above washed over him while casting her partly in shadow. Coyly, she twisted and said, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

He very badly wanted to fly up and out the skylight. His chest constricted as she leaned in further, her breath fluttering softly through her nose as she continued to observe him, “You have such lovely eyes.”

Awkwardly, he smiled, his high cheeks blushing only a little. It was enough to get a haughty chuckle and grin from Lina.

“You do think I’m pretty!”

Just then, the front latch clicked and the door opened. Zevran thought his heart might burst as the girl steered back in panic and tossed the book at him. In a flash, she was out of the room and back near the hearth again just as Rafael announced his entrance.


	7. Part Two Chapter Two

Several days later, Vinter told Zevran to gather his things. They found him a home, it seemed. The lad had mixed emotions about such a prospect. In one way, he was happy to leave the confines of the small room with a rebellious girl and angry, distrustful mother. In another way, he was nervous this next place would reveal another angry Shem and her kin. They traced the narrow, crowded streets near Dockside and the merchant block. The low-lying buildings were held together in a long stucco line that all appeared the same from the street, although close passages revealed themselves from time to time. The rising heat from the summer morning mixed with a humdrum of sweaty people, dried meat, fresh fish, and herbs engulfing the air with feral odor the boy could not place but had a difficult time ignoring. On the Steps, above the bustle of the City, he could now appreciate how unsoiled and quiet it was.

Vinter was looking for something under the first story eves. Zevran paid little mind and followed as they hugged the edge of the walkway, careful to also observe his surroundings and anyone who might take to him in a menacing way. After the second block of buildings, it seemed his comrade found what he was looking for and stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door. No knockers or symbols adorned the façade, and the bright orange staining around the frame had long faded due to wear at about shoulder height. 

The man knocked quickly and leaned on the worn portion of the thin doorframe, looking around nonchalantly as he did so. Something above them opened and then closed again, which was followed by muffled padding on the other side of the wall and then a loud thud just behind the door. The entry pulled back part way before a young man leaned out to greet the guests.

“Ser Vinter Ceralius of the Durn House, yes?” The young Shem was tall, taller than Vinter and lanky. He had dark cropped hair and clean features, if not a bit unkempt around his chin. He was chewing on something, the thin stalk of which hung from the side his mouth and waffled a little as he smiled cheekily. He prodded with some knowingness as he hung on the opposite side of the faded doorframe, “The Guild Master said you might stop by.”

He grinned back at the youth with a nod, “Yes, I’m here to deliver your new convert.”

“Oh?” He mocked surprise, “Alright, let me see him.”

Vinter retrieved himself and turned halfway, motioning Zevran to come forward. Suddenly, the teen felt rather nervous presenting himself before this stranger. The man remained fixed on the entry, his head tilting to one side, the grassy straw precariously dipping out of his mouth. His half smile never faded, but the boy could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes.

The man glanced over to Vinter, “Is this it?”

“You are the best at what you do.” The older Shem chuckled and gave the younger a slap on the shoulder in jest, “I’m sure you can figure it out, yes?”

That seemed enough for him. He pulled himself up off the frame and directed to the Daedric, “Well, come on then. I’ll show you around.”

Just like that, Zevran’s life was traded and he never even knew. The elder began to head up the road before catching the youth jerk toward him with uncertainty. The teen swallowed hard, confused by what just happened, and the fear of abandonment began to creep over him. He looked into the open entry and then to his friend again.

The Shem stopped himself and posted a brief smile, realizing there was nothing he could say that would make this transition any easier. Instead, he offered one piece of advice knowing that he did the best could for the boy with what he had, “Think on your feet and you will be fine.”

That was last time he saw Vinter.

Zevran hesitantly walked into the foyer of his new home. The tight hallway immediately released into a rather large open area. A hearth, complete with an oven, sat to one side of the front window. A long, wide table took up much of the room with a low fireplace on the other side. The man sat on the edge of the table with his feet propped up on a stool and watched the newcomer take in his surroundings. A sense of scrutiny tinted his words, “What’s your name?”

He rolled the shoulder carrying the small, cloth pack, “Zevran.”

“Yes, and how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And have you ever killed someone before?”

He turned back to meet the young Shem square in the eyes, and shaking his head mutely earned a smile. The man rocked forward, rubbing in the mantra with a hardy laugh, “Welcome to the Crows! I promise, if you have nigh sent someone to Andraste by now, you will by tomorrow.”

Zevran’s expression lacked the same enthusiasm and the man clarified, gesturing around to emphasize the grandness of the establishment, “You are in the lovely House of Arnii. I am your housemaster, but you may call me Taliesen. This is your home now, and if you do as you are told, you may just survive long enough to make it a comfortable one.”

If he survived long enough. Even with the lighthearted zing the housemaster gave that sentence, the teen still felt a dreadful weight drop in his stomach. He had to wonder what he got himself into. Did Vinter send the boy here for lack of anywhere to go, or was this the Master’s intent all along?

Taliesen gave Zevran a minor tour, first telling him the important areas, namely wear to wash, eat and shit. There were three floors to the House, plus an attic loft, which was mostly used to store dry goods for the winter.

“And the occasional dead body,” He teased with a wink.

There were a few others in the House as well, although Taliesen noted that most were away on various ‘errands.’ Roughly thirty members resided there between the six rooms afforded to them. The housemaster pointed into a narrow corner room on the second floor and said, “You can stay here on the lower rung below Ren. He’s poking around somewhere.”

The lower rung amounted to an old sack stuffed with hay and molded into shape on the floor. Just above hung a cot between two beams parallel to the wall.

Taliesen gave a jovial nudge, almost pushing the distracted lad over in the process, “Eh, at least you nigh will be alone. I’m sure Ren will appreciate some company, yes?”

Zevran was told to settle his things and have a wonder around. He would be of no use to anyone if he could not manage to locate the loo in the evenings. Taliesen had things to do and would not be back for a couple of days. Until then, it was up to the young man to figure it out on his own.

It would be an understatement to say that the teen had a rather different concept of who and what the Crows represented. The Master always spoke rather highly of them and his interactions with Vinter, assuming he was one at all, showed himself to be a charismatic and thoughtful person. His home was clean and he had a family. This place was an opposite extreme; ages of dust and grime lined the hallway. His new room was littered with the discarded belongings of his presumed roommates. The kitchen, although clearly outfitted to keep up with a large demand, showed little signs of use. The only civil place in the House was the front living area with the low table and a spacious open forum out back surrounding a well.

The boy was overwhelmed when a thundering crash came through the front door the first evening of his stay. Tentatively, he leaned over the banister in effort to identify the loud hoots and laughter emanating from the front room. Six, no seven, Shem stood in a half circle as one of the broader fellows recounted the folly of his day.

“I swear upon Andraste’s holy skirt, he looked at me with this, this fire burning in his eyes. He wanted me cold in the ground.”

Another one of the group interjected, “You had to see him - four hands taller than me! Built like a ship, he was.”

The broader Shem chuckled expressively and hunched over to imitate the brute he was describing, “He screamed something wild, I nigh know what, and just charged!” He stomped the floor a couple times, “We all stood there and went, fuck! We have to get out of the way! So, Cregin here lunges to the side and grabs the rope,” he shifted to the edge of the table and grabbed the air as though he was yanking something. “At the very last second, we jumped back and let the trap in on him. The expression on that Qun’s face…. He knew he was done!”

He was proud of himself, nodding and grinning as he finished the story. By now, Zevran was halfway down the stairs, peeking around the corner at them. There was a sense of camaraderie between the men as they stood there confiding their own encounters with such creatures. All of them were tall and of various builds. They all wore similar tucked tunics and vests that appeared sooty and muted given the dim light from the fire pit.

One of them looked over to the movement by the rail and perked up, “Oh? What’s this?”

Caught, his instinct was to pull back into the stairwell and hope the man was referring to something else. But, Zevran was no coward and instead, he pushed himself down to the bottom landing.

There was pause in the room. The half circle all seemed a bit caught off guard, staring at the young Daedric lad like he was a out of place. To be fair, Zevran’s appearance was out of place. He still wore the customary long cream tunic, slacks, belt and small vest from the villa. He was clean and well kept, despite leaving his old home weeks prior. To them, he looked like a pageboy who fell out of a royal house.

Cregin, the tallest of the men spoke first, a questioning glare flexing on his long jawline, “Well, you look lost. Who are you?”

He did not really know what to say. He felt lost. The teen was about to reply when another in the group, who suddenly recalled something earlier in the day, interrupted him.

“Ah, Taliesen said someone was coming,” He gestured to the lad with a smile, “He said we should welcome him while he’s away.”

The room filled with dark snickers that made Zevran uncomfortable. Cregin crossed toward the teen, inspecting him as he went. He huffed with a condescending a smile and leaned over slightly to meet him eye to eye, “You look like a golden boy.”

Laughter erupted. Zevran had absolutely no idea what he meant and cautiously peered around at the others.

The Shem stood straight again and called back, “Hey, where’s Ren? You have a new friend!”

The group opened up as the others looked for their hidden comrade. Leaning on the far door that lead to the back forum stood a slight figure. His arms were crossed and he was cantered such that he faced the backside of the group. Jet cropped hair hung just above the pointed tips of his ears like a mop. His expression was not one of amusement, or even interest, but given the assertion made by Cregin, he hoisted himself off the beam and slowly sauntered toward them. The tall Shem offered the teen like a present as he approached and Zevran remained in his place, insecurity washing over him. 

Ren was either Daedric or Daelish, Zevran could not tell which. Subtle telltale signs showed, however, that the latter was more likely. Cobalt eyes pinned the lad to the floor, his drab expression never changing as his focus remained on the newcomer. Fair, defined cheeks gave off a gray sheen in the firelight, emphasizing several deep scars that traced what used to be a line of vertical tattoos on the left side of his face.

His eye contact remained until he reached the stairwell. He stopped momentarily beside the lad before exhaling and heading upstairs. The response resulted in another round of laughter in the room.


	8. Part Two Chapter Three

The awkwardness of these encounters did not seem to abate in the coming days for the lad. Ren was not often around and when he was, he stayed to himself. Zevran tried to ask him a few questions, intrigued that he could be from the forest to the North, but was either ignored or given a sound phrase. A cautious warning, really: “Mind your business.”

Zevran was relieved that he managed to keep the coin he earned over the years. Tucked carefully into the palms of his mother’s gloves, he had nearly three Antivan gold saved in various forms of currency. This coin was what allowed him to eat since the group did not keep a garden and often chose the market over the hearth. He knew better than to flaunt this fact and kept the gloves hidden under the straw mat near the makeshift pillow made from his tunic each night. He also followed Ren’s example by staying isolated and away from the others as long as he could. When upon re-entering the House, if anyone was in the ground floor lounge, they would still manage to pick at him with cryptic euphemisms he could not place. Their slang was almost like a dialect, one he was never exposed to in the outskirts of the City.

Instead, Zevran took the time to familiarize himself with the surroundings of his new home. He was on the far southern side of the docks, near a district dubbed the ‘Tern.” Tern was a colloquial word that referred to a temporary traveller or refugee and was where all of the sailors lived with their families. Temporary was probably not the correct description for the place since most of the sailors’ descendants lived in the area for generations. The district had a very different feel from the rest of the docks, however. The residents were mostly foreign, carrying accents Zevran imagined were from the South. Ironically, they looked to him less suspiciously than the merchants on the other side of the block and he felt relatively safe walking the streets there.

The northern side of the docks was where Vinter lived, although Zevran dared not go near the place after he made such effort to be rid of him. He felt a little bitter, though he could not say why. The main thoroughfare in this area lead directly to the Grand Mile, a series of steps that connected Dockside to the main merchant quarter, Veshnee Palace, and the Chantry. From the base of the steps, he could see the tips of the spires, the echo of the bells every noon and evening heralded onto the City below like herders calling their flock.

The lad was especially interested in the ships. He read long ago that it was not the Daelish way to sail on water. He wondered if any of the sailors were Daedric, though he never ran into one on his personal tours. Most Daedric he saw were either porters or messengers, transferring various things from the boats into narrow passages lining the Grand Mile. They paid him no notice, too busy in their affairs.

One afternoon, after returning from the boardwalk, Zevran discovered his bag was missing. Frantically, he searched the corners of the room, feelings of violation encasing him. A sharp shock of panic then hit and he rushed back over to the mat, tossing it aside. Then he went downstairs.

“Give it back!” He demanded. For the first time, his anger was showing through as the lad planted himself at the bottom landing and faced two of the bunch that greeted him the first night.

Velnas and Borne, as he heard them called, were relaxing against the wall with their feet pitched on the table. They simultaneously looked to him and cracked smiles.

“Oh, look!” Velnas chirped, his stubbly smirk breaking further into a toothy grin, “He’s good enough to talk to us now!”

Borne, a smaller fellow, but no less broad than his friend, snorted with a shrug, “I wonder what the golden boy wants.”

“Give it back, I know you have it!”

They feigned innocence, their hands going up in the air. One of the Shem managed to continue the charade with a straight face, “I nigh know what you are on about. Did you come here with something?”

Red reached his cheeks and Zevran felt the base of his skull burning. He wanted to tear them out of their chairs and take the smirks right off their faces. But, he wondered what exactly he could do. He had no weapons, and he certainly would not last in a fight. Borne leaned forward and propped his muscled elbows on the table, cupping his chin atop a palm and waited for the lad to answer in a meaningful way. Zevran looked to the floor for a long moment before getting a different idea. He backed away up the stairs again.

He could hear the laughter below him, but it did not matter. He would find what they took even if he destroyed what they had in the process. He located the last room to his left on the first floor and began knocking items off a chest he saw while investigating about the house one day.

It was not long before the pair was in the doorway and shouting about the intrusion. The chest was locked, so Zevran took a sheathed short sword he found in one corner and began beating the box with it. A strong arm picked him up and tossed him to the other side of the room, and in a flash he was up and out the door, back down the stairs with Borne screaming slurs after him.

The lad rounded the corner for the front entry slamming headlong into a figure. Disoriented, he felt a hand yank him up by the scalp.

“Come here, you little runt!” Borne shook him hard to get his attention.

The teen swerved around with his hands out trying to claw at the brute’s face, screaming all the while, “Give it back!”

The Shem gave a swift punch to the chest that just about took all life out of the boy and threw him to the ground. Zevran lurched out a buried cough trying to get his breath back as thick boots approached him.

“Stop.”

Borne, ready to reach within the bowels of his soul to teach this newcomer a lesson he would not soon forget, turned to the sound. His student remained hunched over on the floor and listened as best he could to Teliesen’s voice.

“By Andraste, is there nigh a better way to do this? Take him out back or something?”

“The knife-ear thinks he can pry into people’s shit!” He said coolly.

Zevran jerked up and spat, “It’s nigh yours! Give it back!”

Taliesen glanced between the pair, observing how overwhelmed the lad was. He turned to Borne, “What was he after?”

“He took my bag!” Zevran interjected as he tried to get some balance. Rubbing the back of his head, he was beginning to feel sore already.

“Ack, it’s all talk.” The Shem made a frown and gestured to the boy, “He’s clearly rabid.”

“Rabid?” He looked up to the standing pair, renewed anger overcoming him. Rabid was something said of street dogs or rats when they got into the grain. It was not something said of people, Shem or no. Somehow, Zevran managed to straighten himself, immediately going after the larger man with hands outstretched.

Taliesen’s lean frame blocked his path, and he casually pulled at the young Daedric as Borne chuckled and backed toward the staircase. Above them, Velnas pondered, “Is he really getting back up?”

“Is this true, did you take his things?” The housemaster inquired to the pair more seriously. Neither answered, instead keeping their amused gaze on the frenzied teen. Taliesen put a calm hand on Zevran shoulder and issued a command, “Go outside and wait.”

The lad stopped his seething long enough to look up at the housemaster. It seemed this was a battle he was quickly losing, as the pleased expressions of the other pair only heightened the more composure he regained. A sense of defeat came over him and slowly he left the room for the back forum.

He sat against a shaded wall for some time. This was a terrible place, he decided. He thought of the veranda he would loaf around on back at the villa when he finished his chores. If there were no visitors, he could sometimes sit out there the entire afternoon watching the City below him. He wondered what it was like in the docks as he observed the ships come to and fro every day. He studied the maps of the inlets they sailed, noting how intricate the coastline was. He thought of Vinter, and suddenly, the anger returned. He felt tricked by what he saw in the Shem. He believed a lie.

He heard the footsteps, but did not bother to look over. Zevran rested his chin on his knees. His slacks were starting to turn a burnt tan from the dust wearing into them. His straight hair was still mussed from the earlier fight and he could feel the bruising on his side where he hit the wall.

A bag dropped to one side with a metallic clank. The lad looked up to Taliesen above him. He was cantered against the wall, peering down to him expectantly. Mutely, Zevran pulled at the white linin pack, and after searching quickly over the contents, closed it again. His heart felt like it was going to break, “It’s nigh here.”

His eyes narrowed, “What’s missing.”

“There were gloves,” he half muttered in disbelief resting back against the wall.

Taliesen raised his eyebrows and sighed, “Well, if they’re nigh in there, then they’re gone, I’m afraid.”

All he could do is shake his head, feeling tears well up against his wishes. He could hear the housemaster shuffle a bit before sliding down the wall to sit next to him, inquiring as he went, “Did you leave coin with it? You should nigh leave coin with such personal things.”

Where else was he supposed to keep such things? He tried to retain his composure, not wanting to further embarrass himself in front of these people. Biting his lower lip, he studied the brick outline of the well.

Taliesen seemed unfazed. He tried to console the newcomer as best he could, “Well, they are just gloves. You can get another pair.”

“They were my mother’s,” he blurted before catching a sniff. Quickly, he wiped away a stray tear.

That effectively ended the conversation. The pair sat there in silence for many minutes, Taliesen unsure what to say and Zevran grappling with the newfound loss. The house was becoming lively again as someone just returned from a long away errand, and the housemaster nudged the teen into a more productive direction, “It will be fine. Come inside.”

He stayed where he was and halfway to the door, Taliesen turned around to prod again, “It will just make it worse if you run and hide. Take your lickings now, my friend, and it will work out better for you in the end, I promise.”

This Shem was not his friend, but his advice was grounded in experience with this place. Slowly, the Daedric retrieved himself with the linin bag in toe and walked to the door.

“Head high,” the Shem chided with a smile. “You nigh want them to think you’re moping, yes?”


	9. Part Two Chapter Four

Things were a bit quieter for several weeks. Borne and Velnas tended to work together, so when they were given an errand somewhere north of the City, Zevran breathed a sigh of relief. Still, he was much more cautious about where he kept his belongings. Carefully inspecting the copper lantern, he made sure there were no dents in the delicate filigree. Together with his favored of the two books, he found a spot deep in the attic within an old crate. The other book was kept hidden beneath the floorboards in the middle of his mat. He would bring it out late in the evenings by the fire when he knew no one was around, or when he really wanted to be alone, he would crawl into the attic and use stolen candles in the lantern as light.

Without the gloves, Zevran had no money. Taliesen already caught on, however, and decided to make quick use of the skills he assumed Zevran possessed, namely that of a messenger. Most days, there was a pile of sealed letters that needed to be delivered by sunrise at the Vancor, a stately building on the western side of the Merchant district. All the letters and their accompanied seals were the same and sometimes stacked in the dozens. He was also chartered with finding good grain and other daily supplies the House needed. Taliesen stopped short at asking the lad to cook, unsure of how it would affect his already low status with the others, and instead used some extra income to hire a maid once a week from another House in Tern. She was from Rivaine and could readily take out an eye if anyone risked look at her the wrong way.

Tasked with purchasing items was nothing new to Zevran. He purchased everything for the Master, and by the end, had a ready list of all the things a functioning household required. The merchant block in the docks was crude, yet diverse, in the things he could find. He quickly discovered that the neighboring building was a leather shop, which explained the pungent odor of steaming vinegar that pervaded the block. Two of the stalled merchants were from Nevarra, probably related to many of the sailors in Tern. They sold an array of meats and herbs that Zevran had never personally seen before, but he recognized a few from the tomes he memorized in the archive. He gained a relationship with them, though the merchants did not speak Antivan well. So, they exchanged words and the Daedric offered to correct their pronunciation for a better price. To his surprise, this scheme was welcomed, and the two Nevarrans became visibly excited whenever they saw him.

Inevitably, Zevran ended up with more coin than he was given and a dilemma hit him. The young man was paid meal and board for all of the deliveries he made for the House, so Taliesen said. So, the lad pondered if he should give the money back to the House after everything they took from him. The housemaster did not seem to know the difference with respect to the allowance he was given. He simply assumed the money was spent in its entirety. This was strange to Zevran. Antivans were renowned accountants. 

But he was also taught that it was wrong to so blatantly steal for no real reason and figured it would likely come back to haunt him later. Thus, he left the stack of coin on the table in Taliesen’s private room next to the letters to be delivered the next morning.

One day, Zevran went to pull out his book only to discover an empty space in the floorboards. He sat there with a mix expression of anger and sincere hatred for this place he found himself in and everyone who resided there. Slyly climbing into the loft, he checked the crate with a sigh. This room was too cumbersome for anyone to bother getting into.

As he walked downstairs, he heard someone call his name from the nearest room on the first floor. He stopped, wondering if it was a ruse.

“Zevran, I know you’re there.” Taliesen’s voice came flatly through the wall, “Come here, I want to talk to you.”

He opened the door facing the housemaster’s back. He was writing a letter and turned momentarily before motioning to a placemat next to him. Obeying, Zevran sat down in front of his book.

Taliesen never looked at him while he wrote. He was very careful about how he scribed, “Curious thing, perhaps you can help me.”

He stared at the leather binding and wondered how the Shem knew. He thought he was careful.

“What use would a knife-ear have with a book?” He chewed on a well-worn stub of the feather he was holding and studied the Daedric, “I mean, do you nigh find that odd?”

Zevran shrugged. He was not about to tell him of all the years wasted on his studies. The books were part of a series of stories he loved to read about the surrounding lands. The one on the table was a composite fable incorporating all the legends of the Free Marches. The book in the attic was a topical history of the Daelish.

Taliesen mused, “You can read?”

He finally made eye contact. Taliesen had sky-blue eyes that appeared almost gray from the light seeping through the window slats. His expression was of genuine curiosity. He found something unusual. Slowly, Zevran nodded.

He sat straight and quirked his head inquisitively. Snatching the book, he opened to a random page without looking and returned it to the lad, “Read this passage to me.”

Zevran took the open page and reviewed the top line. Blinking a few times, his heart pounding, he looked up, “Would you like me to recite in Orlesian or translate to Antivan?”

His eyes widened and he shook his head, “Where did you come from?”

Somewhat instinctively though, he thought the response a trick, and so Taliesen handed him the letter instead, “Here, read this then. I know what it says.”

He plucked the parchment from the Shem’s hand and recited the top line, “To the respected Viscount Bernardo Vanechal, it is with my humble regret to inform you of the loss of-“

“Alright, that’s enough,” Taliesen jerked the letter back. Now suddenly unsure, he asked more seriously, “Where did you learn this trade? Are you from some House Lord?”

An accountant? Hardly. Zevran could surely only tell stories of the mere foyers he was allowed to enter, or sometimes just the steps, if the merchant’s family forbade visitors outside the Master. He cleared his throat, “I was just a servant.”

It was clear the Shem did not believe him, but Taliesen let it drop anyway, “Nigh are you to deliver letters anymore.”

The subtle accusation did not sit well with the younger. He argued, “I nigh read them!”

He tisked, “I neh said you did. This is just nigh your job anymore, understand?”

Zevran was handed back the book and from then on, both copies were placed deep within the hidden crate. Without the deliveries, he was bored again. Occasionally, he tried to follow Ren around, just to see where he wondered off to during the day. That did not last long after one incident where the sullen Daelish figure trapped him in an alley and gave a discrete threat of a dagger to his side, reissuing the sensible advice he gave upon the teen’s first arrival. He was still tasked with gathering supplies, so he spent a lot of time down by the stalls, chatting with the two Nevarran merchants. He asked them about where they got their herbs and what kind of mead they made. Once he brought back several gifted bottles and thought to present it to the House. It was not that he felt obliged, rather that Zevran wanted to test if using something sweet worked better than all together avoidance with the salty band of brothers.

Interestingly, the group did not know what to make of the offer. Here before them stood a now scrawny young Daedric man pushing forward a foreign brew with a cleverish smile. Borne was convinced something was up; especially after the rare reprimand he received from Taliesen.

Zevran pretended this was a merchant back on the Steps and mustered a feline grin, “Surely we could get to know each other on better terms, yes?”

Taliesen uncorked the bottle and sniffed the contents, “You said this is from the Nevarrans?”

“You sure they nigh pissed in it?” Cregin disparaged. It was no secret that he did not like Nevarrans of any kind. Never mind their spices or women, both of which he would crawl over himself to get to.

“You should try it first then, my friend,” Velnas poked before picking up a small pewter cup, “Hell, I nigh scared. Bring it here, knife-ear.”

“Nevarrans are known for their mead,” Taliesen nodded in approval and slid over a cup.

There was one in the group who knew better. Cerelus, a small spindly man who came from the far west, immediately peeked interest and grabbed the second bottle, “Heh, this is the equal to the Barachal Vineyard.”

“Would that be the north vineyard or the south vineyard?” Borne smirked blandly.

He looked up and sneered, “You nigh have any sense to know.”

Zevran would not admit it to them, but he never drank mead before. It was far sweeter than he predicted, which was echoed on roughly half the other faces in the room. Except for Cerelus, of course, who took in the drink like it was some fine brandy. Antivan wines were dry and weak by comparison, which was fine by them.

“An acquired taste, I can assure you!” Cerelus exclaimed, offering to take the other bottle with permission.

As the summer came to a close, Zevran was nudged awake early one morning. He was kicked really, but not hard enough to hurt him. Disgruntled, he rolled over to the sound of Taliesen’s voice, “Get up.”

Wondering what the problem was, the Daedric rubbed groggy eyes and sat up on his mat. Above him, the housemaster stood with a fixed shoulder-width gate, his long form leaning lightly on a stick, his normal tunic and vest replaced with more sufficient padding. He smiled and asked, “You ever pick up a sword, Zevran?”

Still halfway asleep, he shook his head.

“Good!” He cried. “Today is your lucky day! Get dressed and meet me out back.”

He threw on his pillow-shirt and grabbed a corner of a bread loaf before heading out the side gate as instructed. The sun was bright and the entire forum was empty aside from the housemaster casually swinging the stick about. To his surprise, Zevran noted Ren seated on the other side in the only shaded part of the patio, concentrating on sharpening the tip of several arrowheads.

“I figured it would better if it was just the two of us to start,” Taliesen chewed on his favorite grass and grinned like he was about to play. He surveyed his subject before changing his mind, “No. That’s nigh right. You need to change.”

Zevran turned to him questioningly, “Into what?”

Taliesen nodded to the other side of the forum, “Hey, Ren. Let me use your shirt.”

Ren ceased his metalwork and sent an icy glare. The stone he was using to sharpen the arrow was a blade all its own, and given the expression, Zevran figured the Daelish man wanted to throw it at him.

“No,” He interjected, removing the dusty warn tunic and turning back to Taliesen with a nod, “I’m fine.”

The Shem paused with raised eyebrows before acquiescing. He walked over to the edge of the patio and grabbed a stick the same length as his. Tossing it, the Daedric student caught the reed with ease, and after some observation, he mimicked the side-stance of his partner.

Taliesen gave a shrewd smile, “You know, that is one of the things I truly love about all the different kinds of knife-ears. I have yet to meet one who nigh has impeccable reflexes.”

To prove his point, the Shem lunged headlong at his opponent. It was all Zevran could do to move to the side before being shoved to the ground. The man straightened himself to finish the thought, “Follow through, you are nigh for it though.”

The youth righted himself and again mimicked his partner. The housemaster waffled side to side, examining his position. With the stick, he gave a thwack just under the student’s right shoulder blade, which reactively pulled his arm down. A poke in the stomach and he stood straight. Taliesen brought the tip of the stick to his chin, in effort to straighten his line of the sight.

“There you go,” he teased, wheedling the straw between his teeth. “Much better. Let us try that again, yes?”

Zevran was confused. He was charged and just moved aside. But, the Shem did come at him again and again shoved him to the ground. Three more times to be exact. Taliesen held out a hand on the last failure and prodded with a question, “If you move aside, what are the options?”

He side-glanced toward Ren, who continued to ignore them. Breathing deeply, he hazarded a guess, “Back away.”

“You could do that. What else?” He prompted for a more obvious answer, “Which side was I facing when I came at you?”

“Away.”

“Yes! And what was exposed to you?”

“Your back.”

“Ah!” Taliesen was excited in a similar way the old man was when Zevran managed to stumble upon something interesting to talk about, “And do you think facing your back to an opponent is a smart thing to do?”

He shrugged but conceded that it was probably not a good idea. His instructor smiled again and suggested, “Let us try it again.”

For the rest of the day, Zevran found himself in the dirt. A proper tunic, or even just a vest, would have helped ward off the sun and the blows from the stick, but the lad did his best to hide any pain he felt so to avoid being taunted later. By the time he noticed the others line the edge of the forum under shaded eves, Taliesen was convinced his lesson for the day was done. He pulled the student from the ground and offered some praise for handling the first day of his new tutelage well, considering his utter lack of experience, of course.

The bruising. The poor lad had never been so sore in his life than he was over the following weeks. Taliesen’s manner of instruction was to keep tapping him until he stood straight and to have the young man come to his own conclusion about what was the best maneuver by repeatedly putting him in the dirt. After each failure, he would give a tisk, make some sort of remark and merrily poke at him until he got back up. He did not really want to learn to fight, but Zevran did not see another option either. He could imagine worse things that could happen to him if he did not begin to pick up whatever skill the Shem was trying to instill.

Taliesen had a philosophy. To him, the best kind of sword fight was one of improvisation. Zevran had little context as to what that meant and stared blankly as the housemaster would go on about the style of stances one could take for a given situation. Ultimately, he would show how every one of those positions would fail if the opponent was astute enough, often using the lad as a prop. To his logic, an unplanned approach worked better at catching someone off guard.

“Antivan swordsmen are trained in specific styles of fighting,” He sniffed morosely. “And they call them by all these fancy names that nigh mean nothing if you end up dead on the other end of the blade.”

To think on his feet was the primary piece of advice Taliesen could offer and it reflected in everything he did. For the first time, the lad was allowed to follow the housemaster around on innocuous errands, and Zevran took the opportunity to more closely observe how the Shem carried himself. Much like Vinter, Taliesen projected a confident swagger, with an added showiness that probably related to his youth. He was older than Zevran by a good measure, but was certainly not middle-aged. A slight accent clipped his words, and it dawned on him that the Shem might not be Antivan at all, which would make a lot of sense since he seemed to have little appreciation for any form of negotiation at the various markets they visited. He assumed others would give a fair price, which indeed may have been the case, but the man also had a lack of concern for the cost of things in general, which would be a poor trait for anyone born in the City, Shem or no.

“How long have you lived here?” The lad asked cautiously on the return to the docks one afternoon. Taliesen took him to a tailor he knew to outfit the teen with more appropriate gear. The offer of generosity was really a loan, and it was understood Zevran was expected to pay it back at some point in the future. The elder Shem knew Taliesen on sight and was, surprisingly, not off put by the Daedric, instead inquiring casually about which hand he used more often. He was measured and told to return in a couple of days for the product. Half of the payment was due up front. Upon hearing the price, the lad could not help but scoff, offering a lighthearted quip that he was paying for silk. Both Shem looked at him in shock; killing the banter and any good will he may have had with the old man.

Taliesen glanced back without stopping, “Nigh six, perhaps seven years. I was your age when I landed Dockside.”

“Where are you from?”

He hesitated, but answered anyway, “Ferelden.”

Ferelden? That was certainly a long way to the South. The only people he met that far south came from across the strait in Kirkwall and were all living as porters in Tern. Some of the Master’s almanacs had the northernmost coast outlined from Denerim to Val Royeaux, all expressly written as an eastern extension of the Orlesian Empire. Apparently, this changed after a recent rebellion that left half the kingdom in ruin. The Master once said nothing charged a noble man to die more than offering him freedom.

Fall progressed into a cool, breezy winter, and one day Zevran finally did something right. He landed the point of the stick into the rib cage of his opponent after summarily tripping him. Taliesen peered up from the floor and grinned widely, “Good! You finally get it!”

Too bad there was no one else around to see it. But, that did not stop the young man from taking a bit of pleasure at winning something for once. A sly smile crossed him and Zevran felt compelled to see if he could do something similar again. The housemaster was keen to squash such ideas though, and quickly the lad was put back in the dirt.


	10. Part Two Chapter Five

The other housemates seemed to be growing accustomed to the newcomer’s presence, and the Daedric noted fewer barbs thrown at him whenever he encountered one of the Salty Brood in the hallway. Velnas still held a bit of a chip, but then he always had a sardonic retort handy whenever the opportunity struck. Zevran was left to his own devices for the most part, though his sparse routine was enough to occupy him. He was becoming rather fluent in Navarran.

One evening, he entered the foyer of the House and realized the place was full of people. He was tasked to deliver a pair of boots to a cobbler on the far side of Tern and did not return until near dusk. The door hung open into a thick void of smoke, and cheery banter echoed into the street. Apparently, everyone was home.

Zevran nudged one of the Salty Brood upon sliding into the front room, careful not to distract anyone from their attention on the low table before them. Taliesen sat center on a stool against the wall with a broad smile, still chewing on his grass straw, and after a bit, he held up his hands to pacify the crowd. 

“What’s going on?” The lad asked. 

Cerelus gave a side-glanced and grinned, “Eh, you are in for fun tonight, my friend.”

He held off from questioning further as the housemaster pulled out a red cloth bag and placed it on the table. The deeply colored cushioned fabric was something Zevran had not seen before. The edge of the sack was covered in golden crocheted detail attached to thick silken cables. The object landed with a collective set of soft clicks that seemed to excite the group more.

Cerelus chuckled and noted to the newcomer, “Vantenii. He’s passing out the jobs.”

“We have had an excellent season, would you nigh say?” Taliesen ventured to his comrades, rather proud of the contents in the bag. He patted the crushed fabric and continued, “The Guild Master must be impressed – he increased our lot by half more. You all will be busy, yes?”

There was laughter among the group as well as an eruption of hushed conversations between working pairs about what sort of things they would be called for. With another flash of his teeth, the housemaster pulled the cord and tugged out a wooden chip tied to a leather string. He focused onto something written on the flat oval object and then called out a name.

“Baan.”

A thin Shem stepped forward and collected the trinket, immediately pulling back before another name was called. Zevran observed a satisfied expression come over the man’s face as he looked at it before carefully tucking the wooden chip into his vest.

“Daeryn.”

“You know, not all houses are like this,” Cerelus mused. He was one of the oldest in the group, probably even older than Vinter. Such young leadership did not upset him, however, whistling that he would never wish such torture upon anyone he cared about. He partially turned to Zevran to explain more clearly, “Most housemasters will just give you a job and tell you to get on with it, but Taliesen figures such ways are boring. He thinks it keeps us sharp by deciding in the group on random.”

“He decides who will run the errand upon pulling those things from the bag?”

“No,” the Shem shook his head knowingly. “He knows who he will give the Vantenii to. I think he does it this way so nigh anyone can say he plays favorites.”

Names continued to be called and some of the group collected their tokens before disappearing into the back forum or up to the darkened hallways above. Cerelus was eventually called and pulled back a gift of his own. Silently, he scanned it over and then handed it to the newcomer. Zevran eyed the small object with a sense of wonder. He had never seen anything so intricately carved before. On the wooden panel was a picture of a river and a box. The detailing of the box showed what he guessed was a deer pinned with an arrow. Above the illustration was a tiny set of marks he could not understand, and when he flipped the wooden coin, the blackened coiled outline of the Antivan Shaal came into view.

“That is the crest of the Vancor,” Cerelus noted. “They are the ones who make these.”

“What does the drawing mean?” Zevran inquired, flipping the token back over.

The Crow tugged on the leather cord, pulling the prize out of the younger’s hand with a chortle, “That is nigh your concern.”

Taliesen sat straight against the wall, the bag now significantly lighter, and called out to the remaining group, “Hold nigh! The courtesans can wait!”

There was a momentary pause as the twenty some men ceased their banter and leaned back into the room. The hush was tense to Zevran as he interpreted their response as though they were all being kept from something more important. The housemaster adjusted his fitted brown vest and happily gestured to the corner of the room near the door, “We have a newcomer, fresh from the fields!”

The entire room turned to the face him, and Zevran felt uncertainty flush his cheeks. He no longer looked like some royal servant who got lost on the City streets, but that was little consolation to the notion that he was not one of them. A far cry, he was scrawny and short, and seemingly still far cleaner in appearance than the weeks’ or months’ worth of travel some of them exposed in return. Taliesen was not thrown by such a reaction and even seemed to brighten his pitch as he addressed the lad directly.

“Do you know what binds the House of Arnii, Zevran? It is what makes us different from any other House east of the Veshnee.”

He obviously did not know what to say, and all he could muster was a shake of his head. A couple sniggers escaped near the fire.

He leaned forward like he was about to tell a secret, “We are nigh the Hounds.”

Several shouts burst from the foyer causing Zevran to turn. Shaggy smiles began to crop up around the room, although it was lost on him.

“This boy comes from a house lord, I am convinced!” Taliesen pointed at the Daedric, now quite alarmed, and a more surly expression crossed him as he referenced to the group, “They dropped him here like he was scrap for the porter yard!”

This statement did not make the Shem happy as they seethed barbs into the space. The housemaster rallied on, “I mean, he must have pissed someone right off to end up down here, yes?”

“No!” The lad nearly shouted, his heart sinking into the floor, “He just died, is all!”

Taliesen paused, his hand still outstretched at the newcomer in mid-gesture with his sermon, and pursed his lips. “Did you kill him?”

“No!” Zevran’s eyes widened.

Silence permeated the room as the housemaster continued to stare. After a moment, he dropped his hand with a dismissive remark, “Ah, it nigh matters. You are here!” Suddenly his vigor renewed, he turned back to the gruff room, “And you all know what that means!”

Zevran looked around for Cerelus or any of the other Salty Brood for guidance. Velnas and Borne were parked on either side of the fire pit, cheeky laugher splashed on their faces. Ren was absent. Cregin stood by the door, but was fixated on the housemaster as he lifted himself from his stool and crossed the room with a healthy strut.

“We do things our way, and that brotherhood is what binds the House of Arnii. One day, you will better understand such things, I promise,” He leaned down slightly to see Zevran at eye level, his long palm resting calmly on his shoulder. The fire behind him dimmed his blue eyes, but the spark of sincerity within them could not be ignored. He stood up sharply and turned to the Shem with added fervor, “But! For now, we have to welcome you – it is only the Crow custom, would you nigh say?” 

He nodded around to the others as they roared their approval in unison. Zevran’s gut told him something was afoot. The relaxed palm clasping his shoulder tightened and suddenly, the lad found himself away from the wall and much closer the fire. It felt as though hands were all over his shirt as the linen stretched above his torso and he was quickly yanked toward the light, his right arm pulled from his side such that he could feel the heat from the pit. Triumphant catcalls echoed in the background in the dialect he had yet to learn, chanting old rhymes between friends.

The housemaster knelt down below the stonework and eyed the young Daedric. His smile was still pleasant, but his words were very serious, “You should stay still, my friend.”

Zevran glared back apprehensively before a sharp, searing pain met the right side of his back. He screamed in shock first and then in agony, but the plea was drowned out by another round of calls and laughter from all around him. The branding iron remained in place for what seemed like minutes to the poor lad, the fire melting into him like it would fall out the other side of his chest. The pressure eventually lifted though and with it was any energy he may have possessed as he gasped and felt the darkness take him.


	11. Part Two Chapter Six

He awoke sprawled on his mat. Somewhat carelessly placed there, the group only briefly thought to lean him on left side over his right. Only his slacks remained on him too, and the sunbeams on his feet suggested that it was near midday. Slowly, Zevran sat up and looked around the small space. He was alone. He felt alone. The backside of his shoulder throbbed, and the thought brought back memories that forced a chill to cut through him. He dared not touch it. The wound needed to be covered.

Closing his eyes, he wished he were back on the Steps. In the kitchen, he was shown how to use a special salve in case he touched the shelf near the bread stove or the cookery without proper tools. Cuts that threatened with infection were often treated with rinet, a common moss mixed with fine silt and bone meal. The Master said the moss lived off the soil mixture and kept the cut sealed. If treated early, no mark was left behind.

He strained to think of another alternative. It was unlikely he would find such an herb in Dockside or Tern. The Chantry was out of the question; in his mind, he could hear the old man’s stern lecture stretch from beyond the grave.

At first, he was concerned about his new injury. But then, as the day wore on he became angry. There was no warning. No explanation. If this was their way of welcoming him, he was done for it. Zevran tore off a piece of worn cloth from his old tunic and soaked it in some water from the well. The coolness made the burn ache with the briefest of relief before the heat resurfaced again. Gently feeling around with the cloth, he could tell it was circular and about the size of his palm, the raised rim just circling his shoulder blade.

Careful to conceal his misery, the lad braved the street with caution. As bustling the house was the previous evening, it seemed everyone was gone. He had no coin to spare, but that did not deter him from finding a merchant who might be willing to indulge a favor.

Izeek and Nabul, the pair of Nevarran brothers, originated from the Silent Plains near Solas and ran the two stalls that Zevran often dealt with. Their father’s brother’s cousins left the family some time before and migrated south to Cumberland. Three generations of sailors were since dispatched upon Thedas and made homes from Tallo all the way down to Denerim. The nomadic nature of their lives seemed at odds with the way they described the Nevarran kingdom, however. The brothers described lush valleys to the Daedric, the stonewalled city, and the ancient Cathes Bridge that separated the harsh drylands to the north from the wetlands to the south. They told of the rich varieties of nuts and grain, much of which was imported into Antiva among other places. It was this reason there were so many Nevarrans in Tern to begin with. Those who came with the shipments simply never left.

Ultimately, it was a drought and tribal warfare fed by the Tevinter Imperium that drove their families to seek better land. Izeek would wax about the old songs his sister sung in the desert when he was small. Nabul, the older of the pair, waved off such sentiment dismissively, suggesting that all things happen for a reason.

As usual, they were excited to see Zevran. The lad guessed they were this way with everyone, but took the warm greeting kindly.

“Come! Come, come!” Izeek exclaimed, offering a spot in the shade behind his stall. The two shops faced opposite each other and sold a variety of different things that arrived on the shipments each month. Throughout the day, the pair would amuse themselves by heckling the occasional passerby. It was slow at the moment, and the younger, at least, was bored. Offering some wine, the Shem chimed, “Tell us a story! Too long since we see you, brother.”

He could tell them a story. He could tell them how he longed to sail from this place, but then where would he go? He rightly bit his tongue and sighed, “Perhaps another time. I have a request, if you’re nigh so troubled.”

“For you, anything.” The statement was so full of conviction that the Daedric stumbled on his words.

“I’m looking for a herb,” He began hesitantly. The brothers carried many, many spices. Most of them Zevran never heard of before, but he started purchasing small parcels at the request of the weekly maid. She said it softened the meats when she prepared them to be cured, and the brothers knew her so they often had exactly what she wanted. He continued, “It’s nigh to eat, rather I need something that I could use on a burn.”

“Honey.” Nabul called from his side of the stall.

Zevran made a face, but was stopped short of responding as Izeek waded in on the problem, “How bad is this burn?”

“Fairly bad.”

“Honey.” Nabul called again.

He was not in the mood, “What is he on about?”

Izeek smiled. He had a dark complexion with a round face partially hidden by the hooded white robe Antivan merchants customarily wore. He pointed at a bottle of mead to his side, “Honey cures many things. It is divine.”

In all his years reading about random roots and plants from the marshes of Nahashin to the Daelish Wood, he never encountered a book that discussed, nor did the Master ever lecture about, the many supposed uses of honey. Sure, it was used to mask the taste in some elixirs the old man made, but it was never a main ingredient in anything he touched. Scrutiny surfaced as the lad squinted and replied with a flat tone, “Divinity will nigh help if you succumb to fatigue.”

“Honey.” His friend rephrased as best he could in the minced Antivan that he knew, “My uncle once horribly burned retrieving hamar from plains one summer. The sun was too great. My mother covered him in honey. Wrapped him. Prayed for him. In one week, he was cured.”

“All true,” the elder brother crowed. He stood up from his bench and walked over to the pair in the shade, a woven fan fluttering in his hand. From within his robe, he retrieved a small brown jar and dropped it on the table casually, “You use pollen mixed with honey.” He rubbed his fingers together with his description, “Thicker that way. Cover the wound and add more every two days. In one week, change the dressing and again until healed. Will work. I promise.”

Zevran was skeptical, but could not explain why. Their willingness to help him seemed gracious, but then again, he thought things were going better at the House too. His choices were to let the injury fester and hope for the best, try to find rinet or something else from his past he knew would work, or trust the generosity of these foreigners. Tentatively, the lad took the jar and nodded his thanks.

Then it dawned on him, “If I know of an herb, can you find it for me?”

They both smiled and bobbed their heads happily, “Of course! Nevarrans can get anything.”

That evening, he carefully stripped apart his makeshift pillow into a series of small bandages and washed them with well water. Zevran had to admit he expected something different when he opened the brown jar and was just a tad disappointed to find a thick mixture with a sweet odor greet him. He took a narrow twig from the back forum and winnowed one end to spread a thin layer onto the cloth square. Just as he was about to place it on the burn, he heard a voice from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

He stilled himself and peered up from his spot. Ren stood halfway into the room and regarded his roommate warily. They looked at each other for a moment before Zevran, his irritation finally getting the chance to lash out at someone, muttered a curse and flippant reply, “What of it?”

Ren seemed not to really care as he waltzed to his space beside the Daedric and dug into a small locked cupboard fitted into the wall above his cot. On any other evening, Zevran would be interested in what the Daelish man was up to, careful to discretely observe him without drawing any attention. Ren was very private and avoided most of the Salty Brood all together unless called upon by Taliesen. He worked alone and would be gone for long stretches of time before resurfacing. Zevran imagined he must be exhausted from such travel because his roommate would sleep for several days before resuming his routine. They never spoke, and Ren never offered any advice other than for the younger to keep his nose where it belonged.

Tonight, Zevran deliberately chose not to care in return. He tried too hard and it gained him nothing but contempt from someone he did nothing to. The dressing oddly felt comforting, but he was worried the bandage would slip if not secured. Carefully, he wrapped the cloth square with another piece of his old tunic and sat back with a wince.

A small bag dropped to his side. He looked up into the shadow above to see Ren’s bland gaze returned.

“It will help with the pain,” was all he said before lying down.

A bit caught off guard, the lad did not know what to do. He pulled the parcel toward him and searched its contents.

“Carnassi?” Zevran jerked back up in disbelief.

“It’s called du’in.” Ren’s response was sharp. He sat up again and hissed, “You chew on it. Now, leave me be.”

Zevran knew what the herb was, although the name Ren called it was novel. The dried, musky leaves were one of the first he got to experiment with back at the villa. The effects were relatively harmless, making Zevran drowsy more than anything. Not one to take a gift lightly though, he took a couple leaves for later, and tried to find a comfortable position to sleep.

The Nevarrans were right. Within several days, the pain in his shoulder was gone except when he touched it, or more likely, when Taliesen took a stick to it. That part of his back became a favored target in their daily spars. The Shem would chuckle a little when the lad buckled, giving a tisk and telling him to move faster in his usual jovial way.

“Let me see it,” The housemaster demanded. “I want to know how it’s healing.”

Zevran glared at him and ignored the request to fill a cup with water instead. That did not suit the Shem as he marched over and grabbed the younger’s upper arm to peer into his shirt. He eyes lit up and gave an impressed huff before letting the Daedric squirm out his grip, “Oh, are you trying mend it?”

“So!” He spat back, shocked at such invasion of his space. He rolled his shoulder uncomfortably, “What if I am!”

Taliesen grinned and laughed, picking up his discarded stick before turning back to the student, “Careful, if it heals too well, we might just have to do it again.”

Zevran tightened his jaw and sent the coldest stare could muster, which only earned another guffaw.

“One day, you will wear it with pride, trust me,” the housemaster said, pointing the end of his stick in Zevran’s direction as he retreated into the center of the forum. Swinging the wood coolly, he wondered, “We should mark it, no?”

Mark it? Zevran frowned and contemplated throwing away his losses for the day.

“I’m sure Ren would oblige,” He continued. “With a proper bribe, of course.”

He scoffed in defeat, “He nigh speaks to me, what makes you think he would do anything I ask?”

“He’s alright.” Taliesen quirked his chin and nodded, “You nigh ask him the right questions, is all. You should have seen the look on his face when we attempted welcome him! Oh! Took two tries and a good amount of brandy!”

He stopped his pouting long enough to catch the final sentence, “You all are burned.”

“Of course,” he said it like it was obvious and normal. Taliesen dropped the wooden blade and pulled up his shirt to make his point. On his upper right shoulder was embossed with a darkened disk divided into quarters, each compartment of which extended a left-facing furl from the rim. He careened his head back to describe it better, “This is the House of Arnii. You are now one us, my friend.”

He did not ask to be one of them, and Zevran did not like the way such wonton inclusion made him feel. But the results were rather permanent. Taliesen caught on to the dissatisfied grimace and thought to send a more candid reminder of the Daedric’s reality, “You should nigh fuss so. Things could be way worse. We could have sent you back, and then where would you go? To the Hounds? Ha!”

“What are the Hounds?”

He scrunched his face like he smelt something bad, “The Hounds are where you go when you have nigh have a place to go. Mark me, they breed assassins that you neh should cross, but they’re bastards in leather, they are.”

Part of Zevran wanted to inquire further simply to better understand, but the other half of him felt bitter at the a description of a Guild his Master had such glowing fondness for. 

Taliesen was not in the mood to explain anyway. He referenced back at the lad, “It nigh matters anymore. You are here and it is my task to train you to actually do something useful, yes?”


	12. Part Two Chapter Seven

If he was going to stay, he was going to have to earn his keep. That was the Arnii way. Zevran imagined that must be the way it was in all Houses, but wondered what exactly he was going to be tasked with. His daily errands remained the same for the moment, but the sword matches against the tall Shem began to increase in intensity and duration. He was only occasionally, finally, getting an upper hand before he was again reminded of his place. The rest of the winter passed rather painfully.

As promised, the burn did heal quickly, although a sunken mark would always remain. The housemaster’s curiosity was peeked at how he managed to mend it so effectively, noting the others’ tendency to scar from infection. Zevran carefully chose to be tight lipped in his response, simply quoting a Chantry line about how cleanliness was divine in the eyes of the Maker.

A blessing, the evenings remained quiet for the young man. Housemates would come and go throughout the day, often lounging in the downstairs sitting area or sleeping on their makeshift mats. Once the sun set, however, the house emptied. Zevran briefly wondered where they all went to, but stamped down his inquisitiveness in place of the certainty that he could be alone. This was his time to reflect on whatever he wanted, which lately was any memory he could conjure of the manuscripts he read or scribed for the Master.

One particular evening, Taliesen leaned into the doorway to observe the Daedric lad scribbling onto some parchment over his mat.

“I do hope that’s nigh my ink and paper.” A broad grin displayed on the housemaster’s long face paired with a chuckle once he caught the astonished expression, “It is quite expensive.”

Zevran was so lost in his thought that he did not hear anyone coming and hastily moved the parchment behind him, embarrassed. Biting his lip, he tried to think of a way to explain his theft, but he was cut off by the Shem’s demand.

“It nigh matters; you can owe me for what is used later. Come.”

“Come where?” He asked.

He was about to retreat down the hall when he veered back at the hint of refusal in Zevran’s tone. Willing the play a bit, he coolly questioned, “You ever wonder where we go at night?”

“No,” Zevran purposefully lied as he forced his lips in a straight line, which only emphasized his youthful stubborn façade.

Taliesen snorted, “Yes you do and even if you nigh care, you are coming with me. Up.”

Apparently, he had no choice. He tidied his space, the ink, quill and paper in the floorboard below, threw on a shirt he washed earlier and let dry on the windowsill, and met his cohort at the lower landing. The walk was brisk and it was the first time the lad had ever really ventured out of the house at night. The streets were empty by comparison during the day, but he could hear activity all around him. The buildings were lit within and he watched as residents took to supper or sat in private conversations. They traced the main thoroughfare for about a block before turning down a side street. The tavern on the corner flushed the alley with lantern light, loud banter and music resonating as they passed. Taliesen gave a passive wave on their way into the darkness again, motioning toward another less well-lit building beyond.

They reached a wide, arched door lined with a frieze the Daedric could not make out in the shadow. It was then that the Shem stopped just before tugging the oak handle. Turning to the youth, he chose now to dispense some critical knowledge, “There is a saying with the Antivan Crows, Zevran. Long ago, when the merchant princes began having their way with the City, the Guild decided that the best practice was to keep their skills, their trade, within. They decreed that all theirs sons,” he paused to motion between the two of them, “our brethren, would carry on the march as their legacy. And their daughters…” Taliesen looked at the door more shrewdly before continuing, “They would be our mothers.”

He recited the line as though he memorized it from a holy book, “Forever their sons wrought crows, their daughters courtesans.”

And the door opened. A scent of roseleaf welcomed them as their eyes adjusted to the light. Ushered into an enclosed foyer, the lad could hear soft music on the other side of another door before him. Taliesen was already a bit distracted by whatever the tune was about and with a smile offered the handle to the newcomer. With some hesitance Zevran pushed open the entry, opening into a much larger space lined with a long bench around the outer wall covered with plush, ornately adorned pillows. There was a second balcony above them, although he could not see the stairs that led to it. Two doors to the right and one door to the left remained closed and the center of the room was filled with several square tables yet also decorated with soft padding beneath them. The Daedric nudged to his right to see a fair woman playing the lute. She looked up from her knelt position and smiled sweetly. 

A hum below the music and easy conversations also pervaded the place in a way that was not lost on him; the tenor felt calming. Like the Chantry.

The housemaster was already gone from his side and made his way to a spot designated for him. Vulnerable and exposed by the door, the lad felt he had few options other than to follow, choosing to quietly, tentatively sit beside him near the rear of the space. The men around him looked familiar, but they were not the same Salty Brood he was accustomed to. In the dense smoky incense, he caught Velnas in another corner. His stinging satire seemed subdued by the attention of the young, beautiful woman near him. Her smile reached ear to ear in response to something he said, and Zevran could not imagine it was anything like what he normally heard from the Shem’s mouth.

“Who’s this?”

He felt fingers brush his neckline and jerked back in near panic. A bushel of curled brunette locks framed a delicate heart-shaped face. Her full lips contorted into a bemused smirk as she sat back. Taliesen popped an olive in his mouth and rested his chin on her shoulder before answering, “This is Zevran. He’s a new convert.”

The term seemed to have meaning to the woman. She raised an eyebrow and mustered an apologetic smile, “A convert? Oh, he just looks like a boy.”

The housemaster nuzzled her neck a little and chuckled as he said it, “That is because he is one.”

The woman turned back gracefully to look Taliesen in the eyes, nonverbally confirming the innuendo. She sighed through her smile and sat up from her pillow, “Rue, please have Sinette come.”

Meekly, she turned back to her admirer and said, “I believe I have your solution.”

“You always do,” he replied, slipping an item into her palm and kissing her cheek lovingly.

Zevran’s heart was pounding and he could feel sweat beading on his brow. He innately understood what this place was and what just transpired. But he would be a fool to say he was prepared for such a thing. Back on the Steps, there were rules about conduct around others, especially women. The only female he ever associated with was the maid lent to the Master on occasion, an elderly Shem in her own right. Otherwise, he was only allowed to view them from afar. As whimsical as they were, women seemed so foreign to him. Only once did he ever see a Daedric woman following after a governess from Orlais. She was like a tiny replica of the Shem in front of her, attentive with all focus on her charge. But these sightings were rare and always outside the villa, as women never made uncalled visits to the Master. 

On their weekly outings, the old man expressly forbade him from looking directly at women. The one and only time he did caused a stir that nearly resulted in his arrest. It was by accident. He was waiting for the Master outside a client’s home in the merchant quarter when he unintentionally caught a young lady’s attention walking with her father. Zevran was nearly fifteen at the time and when she stopped to speak to him, he instantly broke into a charismatic smile, never turning away. Her father and escort, oblivious to the fact he lost his companion, turned to see the unorthodox pair having a flirtatious conversation in the middle of the street. The lad was unabashed in his innocence to the social faux pa he just committed, more relishing in the attention from a pretty girl. But before the Master, who was emerging on the front steps, could even interject, the patriarch was at the Daedric’s side with slurs and calls for an apology. Indeed, for nearly two weeks after, Zevran received enough verbal reprimand that he never dared have the Master stopped in the street again.

A curtain of silk came into a view. The dress was embellished with fine needlework of feathers and flowers, covering the figure in a woven display of green, white and red. Long blonde strands fell over the top of her corset attached to a petite profile. Bright blue eyes peered down onto the seated guest, and she gifted an enchanting smile before referencing to her friend, “Nell, you called for me?”

Nell sat upright with a gleeful expression and wrapped her arms around her new companion, “Taliesen was telling me all about the terrible position this poor fellow is in. He’s new here, you see. I was hoping you could help,” she paused to hug him more closely, “show him the way.”

She meant it in the kindest manner possible, but the statement left Zevran wanting to flee the place entirely. He peeked over to see the gratified smirk on the housemaster’s face, leaning back against his plush pillow to see what the newcomer would do. 

Sinette’s smile never faltered during the theatric display. In fact, a sense of compassion even flickered from behind her eyes. Holding out her hand, she conceded, “Come with me. I know what would make you feel better.”

The desire to follow her was not the problem; she was alluring, after all. Rather it was how public the scene had become. Suddenly, it felt like all eyes in the room were on him, much like when the House welcomed him with a brand to his back. This was a test of some kind. He knew it. And if he chose not to follow through, then he was unsure of the consequences that might befall him.

The best he could do was ignore the audience. Or better yet, he could try to play up to it. Swallowing what was left of his dignity, Zevran flashed a disarming smile of his own and took her hand. Gently, she pulled him upright, backing away into the center of the room first and then toward one of the doors behind her. He could feel the spectators watch his departure like a renewed burning on his shoulder. Instead, he let it fuel the intensity in their eye contact, her smile never fading like starlight within reach.

Mustering enough courage to leave the room did not mean he had enough courage to last, however. Once on the other side of the door and in the privacy of a foyer, the Shem woman sensed his hesitance.

“Oh dear,” she simpered, running her free hand on his high, define cheek, “Nigh be this way. Trust in me.”

She led him up a set of stairs; one that he was relieved did not open out over the sitting area like he was on parade. The woman peered around before opening a door to one side and sliding in with her partner. A fire was already started, offering the room a cozy feel. She poked at the embers to ensure a flame and then turned back to her uncomfortable suitor. To her, the Daedric appeared like he was about to get into trouble; a notion of which made her chuckle all the more appreciatively.

“Come here,” She sat on the end of the bed and patted a space beside her. Zevran obeyed, convincing himself that he still may make it out without coming across poorly. Sinette’s hollow cheeks and fine brow were emphasized by the amber firelight. She was older than him. Perhaps Taliesen’s age. They were silent for several minutes while she studied him. There was no expectation on her part, but he guessed that she was waiting for something.

He was about to speak when she interrupted, “You are beautiful.”

His words were lodged in his throat and clearing them, Zevran questioned, “Is that nigh something I say to you?”

She ignored the comment, “Your smile downstairs was so charming. And your eyes… You are nigh who they say you are.”

He frowned, confused. The woman reached over and drew the length of his jaw with her fingertip; the sense of which sent a pleasant chill up his spine. A corner of her mouth lifted by his response, her focus steadily on him. She cooed, “You come from Tevinter, yes?”

“No,” he shook himself from her touch, brows knitting down. He was from Antiva. He was probably birthed not far from where they were at that very moment. 

Her hand cupped his chin again, her soothing voice lost in thought, “I have neh seen such golden eyes.”

He pulled back, but she followed into a thoughtful kiss. The embrace seemingly erased any thought the Daedric might have had, replaced instead with youthful desire. Insecurity aside, he returned the favor, his fingers instinctively weaving into her hair and caressing the back of her neck. He could feel her hands rest on his pounding chest, the rapid thudding of which sounded like horse hooves within his own ears. Heaving, Zevran straightened himself to take a breath, but was given little opportunity to recover. Gently, Sinette caught his attention by pulling one hand from behind her head and landing it squarely on her corset. Keen to keep eye contact, she used him to undo the top clip and then the second of her outer dress all the while tugging at the thread below holding his trousers in place. It was like both were released at once, and she dared beckon him further, her hand instructing him to undo the top of her chemise.

From then it was a blur for the lad. He felt flushed and eager. He let her guide him to the right position as he focused on the contours of her lips. They interlocked deeply, his hurried kiss meeting her tongue with equal fervor. The passionate exchange was not to last long, but it was enough for him. Out of breath, a line of sweat coinciding with his rushed exhaustion, he nestled himself into the crook of her neck. The feeling of her fingers tracing his back was relaxing.

“Maker,” was all he could muster.

She grinned into his cheek, partly turning toward him with a gentle, sincere look. The way she spoke was matter of fact, but hinted at the notion she was happy for her part, “And now you are a man.”

For the coming several days, Zevran was stunned into a near dreamlike state. All he could think about was Sinette. The way she smiled. The way she caressed him. The shape of her hip on his hand. Her soothing, melodic voice. They laid there and talked for a while afterwards about benign things. The weather. How he enjoyed watching the ships. The many uses of honey. He dozed and awoke alone the next morning. Although slightly uneasy, he managed to slip away without anyone’s notice and back to the House.

“I see you are distracted,” Taliesen chided roguishly as he met his pupil in the back forum that afternoon for their now daily lesson. He grabbed a stick and leaned on it slightly, “Happy?”

Jolted from a thought, Zevran wanted to lie. He managed to say nothing instead.

“Good!” The housemaster chimed, “It is one of the few perks we get. Tis a waste to nigh enjoy it, no?”

“How often are you there?”

He pursed his lips and mused, “Oh, some of the brothers are there nightly. Whenever they get the coin, that is.”

Zevran queried with the pointed end of his stick, “And how much did you pay for Sinette?”

Taliesen peered up, “Oh, my friend. It is nigh what you are thinking.” Before confusion set in, he quickly corrected, “These women are courtesans!” He emphasized their description with a fiery zing, “They’re nigh some cheap whores. Sure, the brothers could find such things if they desired, but why would they when they have the best ladies in the City?”

“But, you exchanged something.” He noted, “I saw you.”

“Aye,” the Shem affirmed rather defensively. “That was a token of my appreciation - for your benefit I might add. They rely on us as much as we rely on them, anyway. You should take note.”

It would be one more thing he owed him. The notion of debt did not sit well, although his foreign housemaster seemed unaware, or cared little, about such things. To owe a debt was not couth in Antivan society as it was never certain when the debt would be called for repayment. The Master never exchanged anything with a client without something in return, either coin or mutually agreed favors. The only guests who came with neither were supposed Guild members, but perhaps there were affairs even the lad’s eavesdropping was not privy to in the villa.


	13. Part Two Chapter Eight

Zevran would wait another half year before he was given any clear indication of his responsibilities as a house member beyond a porter and afternoon sparring partner. The Vantenii came again, and again everyone clamored around the low, broad table to receive a mini sermon about the previous season. Taliesen, rocked on his stool with checked excitement, a behavior he must have practiced over the years in order to continually rally the troops before him. Beside him sat the cushioned satchel filled with their potential reward.

“Oy!” He called out. “Listen up, friends! These times, they are slow, but fear not. Within this purse lies the remedy to your boredom!”

The young Daedric man had started to come into his own a little. He crouched on the edge of the fire pit chewing on few minew seeds, casually observing the response from the others. Cerelus sat next to him as they shared the treat Zevran brought back from the Nevarrans two days prior. Izeek spoke of the long black and white grain like it was some kind of aphrodisiac. Soaked in sea salt, the seed was supposed to ease the effects of an early summer heat just beginning to hit the coast. Cerelus caught on early that Zevran was the person to talk to with the merchants and offered to purchase a parcel just to try it out. The seeds did not mange to cool them any, but it tasted good so the sales pitch was not entirely deceiving.

The housemaster passed out the jobs like he always did, calling each name as he pulled the chord from the pouch. Zevran leaned over to look at his comrade’s token. A book was carved into the wood next to a symbol of what he guessed was a tower. Tiny script, burned by a needle, was scrawled along the top in a form of code. Cerelus studied it before quietly tucking the object away, grabbing a handful of minew seeds with a renewed grimace.

“What’s wrong,” Zevran inquired.

“Nigh nothing,” The older Shem seemed unhappy with the errand he was assigned, though he chose not to elaborate. The others were less content with their offers as well, although no one argued. They simply collected what was theirs and scattered as normal. The evening was unusually subdued.

To the Daedric, it was nothing to fuss over and he went about his business. The following day, he roused himself, set about his daily errands and was by back by early afternoon for lessons. Recently, the housemaster moved from using one large stick for practice to two smaller ones, noting that Zevran was faster on his feet closer to his target. Indeed, this observation was valid as the student could often knock the taller Shem off balance if he was within arm’s length.

He emerged from the side gate into the back forum and waited. Already the heat was too much, and the pair would often end up seeking shelter and dousing themselves with well water in effort to cool off. The dusty space was empty though, and the lad half wondered if he should sequester himself in the cool brick building until the Taliesen showed himself. 

The decision was made for him as he heard a call from above. He moved out from under the eves to look into the first floor window. The sun felt ferocious on his face. Beyond the glare, he heard Taliesen’s voice, “Oy, come up here, I want to talk to you.”

He climbed the stairs and caught the housemaster move back to his private quarters. All of the windows were open, allowing a briny cross breeze from the bay to sweep through the house. Taliesen sat shirtless and cross-legged on a mat at his desk and motioned for the lad to sit down beside him in the shade.

He turned with a rectangular wooden chip in hand, smiling as he spoke, “Today is your lucky day, my friend.”

Zevran immediately recognized the token and perked up, “An errand?”

He pulled back the icon, “My errand, actually. But, I need some help and figured this would be a good opportunity for you to show your spirit, yes?”

He quirked a brow and reached for the token in a blind attempt to understand, to which his comrade kindly obliged. The Vantenii was no different than the others Cerelus let him ponder over in the past. On one side was the burned mark of the Antivan Shaal, its coiled profile ready to strike. The other side showed a scene depicting a narrow passage with a symbol he did not recognize in the middle. Above the drawing was the secret code, burned into the wood by a needle.

“There are three main kinds of errands, Zevran,” Taliesen began thoughtfully, counting on his fingers as he went. “You could be asked to take something, whereby you would return the item to its rightful owner. You could be asked to take someone at the request of another and make arrangements for collection. Or,” He hesitated, “you could be given a mark.”

The way he said it sounded ominous, and the lad nudged up from his study.

Now that he had his full attention, the housemaster retrieved the token and pointed at the surface, “You see these dots at the top? They are the instruction. The first set of dots is the type of errand. One dot for theft. Two for capture. Three for a mark. The second set of dots is to whom you report your success. One mark to the Vancor. Two to your guild master. Tell me, my little raven, what does this say?”

It was easy, “A mark to the guild master.”

Taliesen sat upright and chuckled, “Aye, you are a quick one.”

“Who is it?” He referenced to the symbol.

“That symbol is the Berantelli, a merchant house based out of Seleny. Quite a journey from here.”

Surely, the mark was not for the entire guild. He persisted, “But, who is it?”

“Ganno is his name,” the housemaster replied, abandoning the chip for some wine. He took a long swig before continuing, “He is meant to make a trip to the City in near a week time.”

“And what did he do to work up such ire?”

Taliesen paused and peered at the younger, raising his brows with his response, “Does it matter? These are the instructions.”

“But-“

“You follow them. Simple, yes?”

The query was innocent, but it was enough to end the conversation. Taliesen sent the lad away with little more of an explanation other than to be ready the next day. They would leave the City by the Weyrs Road, tracing along the river, to meet up their intended target before he ever made it to the Wyncalli Bridge. There was a tavern there, separating a long stretch of hilly woodlands from the outskirts of the City some two days further journey. Journeymen always stopped at this inn to save themselves from spending another evening camped on the roads. Seleny was not terribly far from the coast, but still at least a week’s travel and only if the weather permitted. The lush valley provided a humid backdrop for the pair’s arrival into the tiny village of Banch, where the Three Greeves resided.

“We will wait here,” Taliesen announced as they approached the wood and plaster structure. The inn itself was quaint but was surrounded by a number of low buildings Zevran guessed were used to house horses and other cargo that passed by its gates. The front was nondescript; a simple painted sign showcased three bards playing lutes above the door.

“What have you?” An older maid asked behind the bar as they entered. Three rather travelled Shem sat in a corner of the otherwise empty establishment.

“A room, may you?” Taliesen flashed a confident smile to the middle-aged woman. 

Curtly, she huffed a reply, “You can stay in the barn, feign you coin.”

Zevran caught that she was looking directly at him as she spoke. The housemaster appeared unfazed though and flatly dropped a silver ginny on the counter with a subtly insulting tisk, “And dinner. I smell a roast, yes?”

The sight of gold would make most Shem comply. It was the same with the Master whenever they travelled to the north, although he was less obliged to openly show such wealth. They were given a small room off the edge of the inn overlooking the stables. There was only a single bed, but it was a proper bed; something Zevran nearly forgot existed with his time at the House. Just the idea of sleeping on something that did not consist of a half rotten mat was heavenly. Taliesen too was pleased by the location, citing they could better watch when journeymen arrived and departed. He said, “This will be ideal.”

Their wait would be short and uneventful. The humid afternoon heralded a thunderstorm followed by heavy rain. Music and banter echoed from below as dusk set in. It seemed the Three Greeves was a popular place as travelers quickly took refuge at the backside of the inn. Taliesen was aware of the distrust the Daedric’s presence may have on locals and proposed that the younger remain in the room to keep watch. He then disappeared for some time, only resurfacing late into the evening with a bowl of stewed roast and potato.

“Here, I’m sure you are hungry,” he offered, motioning for his comrade to sit over by the door. Settling himself, the housemaster took a gander out of the tall, narrow window. “He is here with two others.”

Zevran could still hear muted laughter and bustle beyond the door, giving an impression that the evening was far from over.

“Now, the mark was originally to be done on the road, but this will be easier, I think,” he spoke indifferently as though he said it more to himself.

“Oh?” He asked mid-bite.

Taliesen looked over from the window, “Aye, he would expect something whilst in the open, but nigh in a sleepy inn.”

Zevran frowned at the thought and asked, “He knows he is marked then?”

“If he is smart, he knows,” he grinned. “It is why he was keen to travel with others, I suspect. So we must be subtle. Quiet.”

“We’re nigh going to kill everyone with him…” his tone was unsure, which was responded with a hearty laugh.

“Nigh if we can help it, although that would be an idea if we wanted to draw attention.” Taliesen said, amused by such an amateur proposition, before shaking his head, “Too much work though.”

“We could poison him,” Zevran suggested more seriously, putting down the bowl.

Taliesen paused and eyed his companion, “With what?”

Daen. Minstraak. He could think of a dozen plants toxic enough to kill a man if given in enough quantity and in the right way. The problem was that he had nothing on him, nor did he have the ability to refine such substances on short notice. He briefly pondered what he might find out on the Weyrs banks had he the time.

The housemaster was dismissive, “No, I have a simpler plan.”

He moved from the window to the edge of bed to elaborate, “You are going to sneak into his room, wait until he falls asleep and then slit his throat.”

“Me!?” The Daedric straightened himself in surprise.

Taliesen nodded, his response hushed, “This is a chance to show what you have learned.”

“By killing someone,” his tone went flat. “In cold blood.”

“You say this in such a dire way,” The housemaster grumbled and sat back, scratching his stubbly chin in confusion, “This is something you will eventually have to do, my friend. It is what we are.”

It was not what he wanted to be. Indeed, it was not what he thought the Crows were. The Master spoke of them like they were champions of the merchant trade. They kept the kingdom at peace, or so he said. Yet, all of his interactions with the Guild since the old man’s death were of thuggish figures with a boorish way of life. The silent visitors, well kept, friendly and keen on their objectives, were like from another world to him. One that did not coincide with the reality he faced.

Taliesen, unaware of this forged insight, put things more simply for his student, “Look, all you have to do is go to his room, hide, kill him, make a hasty exit out the window and you’re done.”

“And what if I nigh can?” His golden eyes flashed anger back at the older Shem.

But, the housemaster was not bothered by such defiance. He smiled kindly and placed a palm on Zevran’s shoulder, “You must.”

There seemingly was no choice. Dread flushed his cheeks as they walked together down the hall in shadow, the music loud beneath their feet. They traced the terrace overlooking a crowded hall below and climbed to the second floor. The room on the far end of the corridor was their target, and unlatching the handle, Taliesen shoved the hilt of a dagger into his comrade’s hand.

They were huddled closely in the corner against the door. The tall Shem’s profile was positioned such that no one could see his smaller companion as he nudged the door open and spoke into the shoulder-length blonde mop at his chin, “He wears a medallion with the symbol of his House. Retrieve it and I will wait for you in the stables.”

Zevran backed into the room, only latently glancing around before he returned to Taliesen with concern, “Where am I to hide?”

“You’re small, yet. You’ll figure it out.”

The door shut quietly and silence remained. All the lad could think about was the potential of being caught and panic began to encase him. The room was slightly larger than the one downstairs with a lone bed and table ornamenting the space. Rain poured onto the shutters of two narrow windows, and the Daedric half wondered if his small frame could even fit through the slits.

Footstep echoed in the hall. Panic renewed, he spotted the only place he could hide. Halfhazardly, he slid underneath the bed just as the door opened.

“I nigh know why I agreed to this, Dae.”

“Was it the coin or the docket to Mal Envo that caught you?”

He lay still on his back, the blade clutched tightly on his chest as he heard the two Shem grouse to one another in the doorway. They were carrying something and before he knew it, a large object was tossed onto the straw mattress above him.

The first Shem sighed, “It is always like this. Do you nigh get tired of carrying him around?”

Dae chuckled deeply. Zevran shakily turned to see thick leather boots as he took a step closer to the bed. The man nudged the object below, “Eh, he pays well and a few too many drinks is the worst it gets, my friend. Beside, we have the rest of the night to ourselves. Can nigh be that bad.”

His friend conceded, “Aye, I guess you’re right.”

“Good, you take first watch then.” Dae said and walked to the door.

“Wha!” The other follow protested, “I brought him up here!”

“Oh,” he goaded in return, “I’ll nigh leave you here all night. Settle in with a mug.”

With that the door closed again. At first Zevran was unsure if the Shem remained, but he released a breath as he picked up the conversation on the other side of the door. One of the pair continued back down the hallway. The other shuffled a bit before finding a comfortable place against the wall.

As silence returned, he could hear a muffled snore above him. As cautiously as he could, the lad pulled himself from his hidden spot and crouched on the far side under the window. The marked target, Ganno, was passed out on his side facing him. What little light exposed by the spaces in the shutters showed only a mass of brown covering a round face in the dark.

He had to slit his throat, so Taliesen warned. And if he chose not to, what then? There had to be a reason the Guild would want him dead, but hidden in the shadow, the Daedric could not find such a motive. Perhaps he made a poor trade. Or maybe he owed money to someone and reneged payment. Many minutes passed as the lad sat staring at the slumbering figure, and he almost convinced himself that if he did nothing, time might stop. That was until he heard a loud noise on the other side of the door. Jolted from his corner, he first kept keen watch of the entry and then Ganno as he momentarily awoke and then rolled on his back to fall asleep again.

He was going to have to do something. That much was clear. Slowly, Zevran stood, tightly clutching the dagger as he inched toward the Shem’s bedside. His eyes were used to the dim light by now, and he could see that the marked was a short middle-aged man. His frame was round and pudgy and he wore his wealth with wanton abandon. His clothing, although travelled, was as fine as someone he would encounter in the heart of the City, and his wrists and fingers were all ornamented with delicate metal. The lad spotted the edge of a large oval pendant from the opening of his linen and silk vest. Leaning over, he wanted to make sure it was the right one before he tried to remove it.

Ganno snorted and stirred a little before groggily opening an eye. Zevran stilled himself but it was too late as the pair made direct eye contact in the dark.

Terror shot through him as he immediately covered the Shem’s mouth. Ganno, now panicked, swung out at his would-be assassin, all the while struggling against the sudden weight on his chest. Muffled screams were nearly drowned out by the rain pounding outside and the banter of music far below them. Yet, Zevran distinctly caught the sound of another thud on the other side of the door.

Instinctively, he knew what he had to do, even if he lacked the desire to do it. He clutched the pendant and yanked at the same time he pushed the dagger in. The Shem let go of the Daedric to clutch at his throat instead, gasping for air. Just as impulsively, he released his hold on the blade right as the door rushed open. There, in the entry, stood a man far larger than Zevran would have ever assumed simply by looking at his boots.

Like lightning, he backed away to the window, throwing open the shudders. Climbing into the narrow space, he could feel wrath approach with each thunderous step, the gurgled lurching of his charge still heaving on the bed. The lad leaned out and made a minor shriek when he suddenly realized he was facing a large drop onto a ground floor building below.

What was he to do? Wrath was almost upon him, so he jumped. The landing was hard, almost knocking the life out of him as he rolled down the sloped gable, over the side of the building, and into an empty stall filled with horse manure. In the deluge, he immediately sat up listening to shouts from above. He needed to flee before the guards managed to get to him. Slipping in the mire, the lad barely managed to his feet before realizing the medallion was no longer in his hand.

Another round of panic ensued as Zevran frantically searched in the rain. The stall he fell into adjoined a courtyard lined with large carts. He stumbled out into the yard, scouring the ground as he went.

“You!” Came a cry.

Zevran jerked up to the bellow of the man he narrowly escaped, now approaching with an axe. He backed into the far side of the yard, acutely aware there was nowhere to flee. And then, there in front of him, he saw the golden ornament half buried in mud. The broad Shem swung and the lad ducked, bolting to the object around the other side of his challenger. Grabbing it, he ran as fast as he could out of the courtyard and past the backside of the stables. Taliesen said he would be waiting, but only tired mares met him as he passed.

Another Shem, the other guard, joined in the chase, and now both were screaming slurs as they went. Zevran hastened down the road, struggling to think where he could go. If they caught up with him, he had little defense against an axe and whatever else the other was carrying.

Before him, another figured stepped out into the path; the glint of a drawn sword held out from his side was the sole sign he was there at all. Unable to stop in the rain, Zevran could only manage to miss him by skidding onto the gravel path and into the bushes beyond.

By the time he looked up, still winded from the chase, he realized it was Taliesen who was engaged with the pair. In fact, the broad Shem with the axe was already taken down and the housemaster stood straight in the downpour, the tip of his blade at the chest of the second aggressor.

He offered a smile, “It nigh has to end this way.”

The man stopped and stared wide-eyed. He was older and apparently had more to live for. Cautiously, he dropped his weapon and gave a dismissive wave, “I nigh get paid enough for this shit.”

“Good, we have an understanding then.”

The conversation was surprisingly civil considering the crime just committed. The housemaster backed away from the man, who was more concerned about the other guard, and nudged Zevran with his foot, “Off we go now.”

Their retreat was quick and quiet. But the rain was cold and a third round of panic was setting in as Zevran continually checked for anyone following. Not far up the road, Taliesen turned off to retrieve their gear.

The lad gaped, “They’re going to know we did this!”

The housemaster casually held out a leather bag. His tone was cheerful in the dark, “Aye, I’m counting on it.”

Numbly, he took the satchel and stared vacantly out onto the banks of the Werys River. Taliesen already returned to the road, however, as though nothing out of the ordinary transpired. Whistling, he slowed his pace and heckled the younger to follow, “Nigh a night to be left out. We should find some shelter. A barn or something.”

Did the Shem really think a barn was going to keep them safe? He was tasked to kill someone quietly and instead managed to fall off the roof and run out of the Three Greeves with two men screaming at his back. He left the dagger. By morning, the entire village of Banch was going to be looking for them. He could imagine the old maid grumbling about how she never should have let them both through the door. With the Daedric come bad luck, or so northerners always echoed. And in this case, that seemed to be true.

“Oy!” Taliesen’s voice jolted him back to the present. “Nigh fall asleep back there! You coming?”

Zevran muttered his reply, “No.”

The housemaster stopped on the path and turned around. The moon was peeking in and out from behind the clouds, and in the dimness, he could barely make out the wheat stalk in the tall grass, covered in muck from his ordeal. He managed a chuckle and tried to stir his comrade again, “Come now, it was nigh that bad.”

“I nigh asked for this!” He shot back. He could not tell if it was rain he felt on his reddened cheeks or tears. Turning more fully, Zevran wanted to disappear. 

The rain had a conversation between them. Taliesen relaxed his shoulders and looked around before studying his friend again. When he finally spoke, his words hinted his sympathy, “Come on. Let us get you cleaned up, yes?”

The Daedric reluctantly nodded. What else was he to do? They plodded together in the rain. About a mile up the road, shelter revealed itself in the form of a secluded bothy on the hillside. A bucket of rainwater was enough to help the lad wash most of the mud and manure out his hair while Taliesen built up a fire in an open pit in silence.

“You have the medallion, I hope.”

Zevran closed his eyes and dug out the cursed object from his boot. He offhandedly tossed it over before resuming his tense post by the fire.

The Shem sighed and scrutinized the golden trinket. From his position, he could see the sad look on the Daedric’s pale, hollow face. It was a longing expression. One that hoped for a far away place. It was one he knew well.

“I understand, you know.”

Zevran glanced over from the fire and remained still. Taliesen tucked the pendant into his leather vest and began to stoke the embers. He continued, “How you must feel about all this. You and I are nigh all that different, I would say.”

He frowned, “You nigh wanted to be a crow?”

His reply was blunt as he raised brows, still looking into the flame. “I nigh had a choice in the matter.”

The thought never occurred to Zevran. Taliesen seemed so content with his place in Antivan society. To him, the Guild simply was a fact of life, so it was in the best interest for its housemembers to make the most of what they had. In fact, everyone in the House seemed to follow such doctrine with unspoken, yet also unbridled, pride. Perhaps there was no better place because they lacked the option all along.

After a long moment, he asked thoughtfully, “Are all the brothers the same?”

Taliesen shook his head, “Most of the brothers were hardened long before they ever stepped foot in House Arnii. Borne and Velnas were mercenaries for nearly ten years in the Free Marches before landing in Antiva. Cregin was a soldier. Cerelus – he was prison guard. I’ll nigh tell you where, but give him a brandy or two and he’ll tell you a story you’ll nigh soon forget.”

“What about Ren?” 

Taliesen nudged up and smirked, “Oh, I found him by accident. He was running from someone.”

“They joined the house then?” Zevran pulled his knees up.

With a nod, “Such members are called converts. Like you.”

The housemaster made it sound like he joined the Chantry. But the Guild was no religion, “I nigh had the desire to be converted.”

“Well, certainly, it was better than the other option for you, no?” Taliesen glared and resumed his watch of the fire, “It nigh matters. We all ended up here in our own way, whether born into it, lured to it, sold to it. Whatever.”

“What about you?” The lad squinted sullenly, “How did you end up here?”

At first he did not answer. An uncertain expression crossed his long features, and the Shem continued to poke at the fire. Slowly, though, words began to flow, “You remember that saying back when I took you to the courtesans?”

“Forever their sons wrought crows?” He recalled.

A smile surfaced at the younger’s sharp memory. “Well, it turns out the Guild takes such things quite seriously. My father, he was a master swordsman for the Vintolli House. It’s somewhere on the north side of the City. You know, I’ve never even been there?” He paused for a moment. “Anyway, he was on an errand in Fereldan when he met my mother. And one day, he decided to nigh return. So, they stayed in Denerim where I was born, followed by my sisters.”

Zevran sat up uneasily and reached for his shirt he left to dry on the edge of a wooden stool. Taliesen leaned over his stick with focus, a contorted grimace emphasizing his sharp jaw.

“He was every bit a caring father, you know. I’m sure he must have loved my mother. But then, when I was six, nigh from nowhere, he took me and we left. I never understood how a father could just rip a child from his mum like that. We journeyed to Highever where he knew this Arl, and he became his personal sword hand. So, I grew up there in the keep, and when I was old enough, he apprenticed me. I even trained the Arl’s eldest son, in fact. Marius was his name.

One day when I was about sixteen, a man came to Highever. I nigh knew who he was other than he was from the North and that my father was unhappy. They argued over something and he left, only to return several days later with three more men. A fight ensued and my father was killed. In the aftermath, they took me. Nigh even the Arl stopped them. We simply got onto a boat and here I am.”

A hush came over the bothy as Taliesen finished his story. He remained mulling over some distant memory as Zevran slowly responded, “That’s terrible.”

He glanced over and huffed through his nose, “The worst part was my father’s warning. When the man first left, he took me aside and assured me they would return. And when they did, I was to go with them with nigh a question, and I was neh to mention my mother or my sisters to anyone. Ever. To the Guild, and to me, they are dead and always have been.”

A chill went through the lad at such insight. The rain persisted until early the following morning, and the pair slowly made their way back to the heat of the coast. Zevran continued to feel troubled by previous days’ events. The notion of so coldly killing someone was sinful in the eyes of the Maker. The notion that this was what he was to become did not sit well with him either.


	14. Part Two Chapter Nine

The sight of the House was both painful and relieving. The Daedric dropped their supplies near the back forum to unpack later and began to head up for a proper wash and long awaited sleep. The housemaster had other ideas though as he tugged on the lad’s vest when he passed.

“Nigh yet. You’re coming with me.”

“To where?” Zevran objected but quickly straightened himself as Taliesen turned back with a threatening expression.

Catching his response, he relaxed and morphed into a more jovial stance, “To the Guild Master, of course! We have to show him what we’ve done, yes?”

Zevran swallowed and followed after the housemaster back out their front entry and into the bright street. He wondered why he had to go with Taliesen at all if it was never his errand in the first place. Perhaps he was expected to explain his blunder. A knot began to form in the lad’s gut at the thought. They traced the length of Dockside, up the Grand Mile and into the Merchant District. Passing the Vancor and the Chantry, it was like they were heading toward Zevran’s old home again. The cobbled streets were clean and wide, seemingly unburdened by the traffic he had grown so accustomed to. The merchants were readying their stalls for when the Chantry would finally open its doors, followed by a flood people released from midday mass.

They rounded a corner into a close and climbed a set of steps adjoining two terraces. Coming out the other side, Zevran turned to look down onto the first ivory Spire just as the Chantry rang its bells. Taliesen was already up the road, looking for another back entry into a villa. The residence was several stories of white washed walls and red tile, adorned with vines and flowers. The far off sound of bustling merchants below was paired with a rather scenic view of Dockside. For a moment, it did feel like back home.

“Oy, nigh get lost,” came the warning.

The lad remembered his place and entered the close to an open door. A Daedric maid greeted the pair kindly and wordlessly ushered them inside. Taliesen already knew where he was going and headed straight for a set of stairs that led to an upper floor veranda. Zevran, though, could not help his distraction. He occasionally looked back at the fair face of the young maid as she meekly smiled in return whenever they made eye contact. 

Taliesen opened a broad door onto a covered balcony and made his entrance. Before them was a serene space lined with lush plants, ornately padded benches, and open stone arches that flushed the space with a cool breeze and natural light. At the center of the room was a large wooden table surrounded by several intricately carved chairs.

Before he knew it, the door closed quietly behind them, causing the lad to tense. The housemaster sauntered toward the desk and dropped the iconic medallion onto its surface with a thud.

“It is done,” He stated rather proudly.

“Good,” came a gravelly voice from one of the archways. The pair swerved to meet the voice’s owner, an older heavyset man, as he walked to the desk and inspected his prize. “I heard it was quite a scene.”

Taliesen beamed in affirmation and offered a hand behind him, “Credit to our freshest convert, for he did exactly as needed.”

The older Shem nudged up to see around the housemaster’s lean frame at the smaller blonde fellow beyond. Zevran adjusted his tunic and vest self-consciously, noting how he must appear after falling into a horse stall and then walking another two days into a blistering summer heat. Even with his feigned courage, he guessed his presence was not so impressive as the Guild Master spit out an olive seed and motioned them to sit.

He poured himself wine before retrieving a lock box for the pendant, never bothering to look at the men as he spoke, “So you’re the one I heard so much about.”

Confused, Taliesen quirked his brow and peered over to his companion. The lad stilled himself, unsure if the Guild Master was referring to him at all.

After a moment, he leaned back in his chair and took a swig of wine, “You are quite fortunate, you know. And apparently you do as you are told, so perhaps he was right.”

“Who?” The Daedric’s question was almost inaudible.

The Guild Master made eye contact, “Well, Vinter. He seems to think Philippe valued you. Do you think that was true?”

Zevran’s eyes widened at the mention of both names. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words lodged in his throat with the final memories he had of either of them. The Master was like a father, though he could never admit it. And although he hoped he would one day see his approval, he never dared ask for nor did he expect such things. Especially after being discarded so quickly upon his death. Vinter seemed to ensure, even hasten, his departure as though his existence was some dirty secret. A man he trusted, whose only advice was to think with his head, thrust him without warning into a violent life he was only beginning to become aware of.

Eventually, he would have to answer. Taliesen was becoming noticeably anxious by such a private topic, “I would nigh know. He’s dead.”

The Guild Master smiled wryly and offered a chortle, “Well, you are right about that.”

The conversation shifted to less directed subjects as the Guild Master seemingly lost interest in the newcomer and wished to discuss more immediate matters. Congratulatory remarks were made. A small leather satchel passed hands.

Their walk back to the House in the afternoon heat was numbing to the lad. The Guild Master spoke as though he personally knew the Master. And Vinter. But in all his years at the villa, the older Shem never made a visit, nor did he ever call upon the old man to make deliveries. At least ones that he knew of.

Taliesen was not thrilled by this sudden revelation either. When they returned to the house, he instructed his housemate to wait beside his desk while he counted out the contents of the purse. The silence was uneasy as Zevran sat in thought, caught up in summer afternoons long lost to him.

“It seems you’ve made a friend,” the housemaster announced as he pushed over a stack of coin.

“What’s this?” Zevran asked.

He twitched up and blandly replied, “That is your payment, minus my share, the House and what you owe me, of course.”

Four Antivan gold sat before him, and stunned, the lad picked at the currency with hesitation. How he longed to go back to crushing dried leaves into powders and greeting visitors at the door.

“Who was this person the Guild Master spoke of?” Taliesen casually inquired as he tallied the remaining ginny on his desk. “What did he do that was so noteworthy?”

Zevran studied the coin in his hand bitterly. He side-glanced, “Master Naheeme. He was a floraesen.”

The housemaster paused and peered over. He was trying to pry something from his memory, speaking slowly, “Master Philippe Naheeme? From the Guidain House?”

The Daedric nodded.

It was as though all the months of observation finally clicked for him. Taliesen sat straight, crystal blue eyes flicking open in shock as he dropped the parcel he was counting and nearly whispered his next question, “Were you his apprentice?”

“I was his scribe.” And his caretaker. And his messenger.

“Who can speak and write Orlesian,” Taliesen countered.

Zevran turned to him and shrugged, “He favored the language.”

Shaking his head, the housemaster was already on to the next thought, “You know, Gynn, the Guild Master, he is from the Guidain House. How did you end up here?!”

He felt defeated. A morose expression befell him, “It nigh matters anymore.”

“Oh, it matters, by the Maker’s mark,” Taliesen suddenly seemed more cautious of his space, momentarily retrieving himself to shut the door. As he sat back down, he continued in a hushed tone, “I somehow doubt Gynn is privy to this gem, else you would nigh be in this House, I promise.”

Zevran sighed, “So?”

“The Guidain House is famous for their floraesens,” He said very seriously, keen to catch the younger’s eye. “I’ve heard Guidain has been in the pocket of the Rogue Prince for nearly an age, and I believe it from what I’ve seen. They control near everything in this City.”

Zevran was uninterested until Taliesen made his next remark, “Whatever he taught you, you must forget it.”

His brows knit down as he warily replied, “Forget what!”

“Whatever you managed to learn from that old man,” Taliesen was firm in his response. “You’ll neh find use for it here, and if Gynn ever thought otherwise, nigh any good would come from it!”

It dawned on him, then. Could what he have learned been valuable? The evening lessons and chores seemed more like the hobby of an old teacher; the Master never gave the impression that his little helper would do anything more. Zevran thought of the copper lantern hidden in the attic. He kept it for safekeeping, but for what real purpose? Slowly, the notion that these hard-earned skills may not have been wasted after all sunk into the young man’s mind to forge new ideas for his future.

But the warning fell with a hammer’s blow. Taliesen nudged his companion’s shoulder, sure to bring him back to reality, “You must trust me – some trades are worth killing for, Zevran. Bury this if you value your life. Find a new skill, I nigh care. But nigh anyone can know of this, you understand?”


	15. Part Three Chapter One

The years passed quicker than anyone would realize, and the wheat stalk was no longer the scrawny child who found himself on the doorstep of the docks like his tragic tale might imply. Indeed, his trim form honed itself into shape, although like Ren, he would always be lithe by comparison to the Shem brethren of his House. His angular, hollow face filled out; his youthful insecurity smoothed into a snarky wit. To the much distain of the Guild and its Masters, Zevran would become the enigma of House Arnii. Locally, he would simply be known as the Golden Boy of Tern.

Such notoriety over so few years would often be taken with a grain of salt by the seasoned traveler, as tall stories were of no short supply in Dockside. However, this Daedric lad was seemingly the real thing. He was young – broaching his early twenties – and talented, lending strong favor to good tutorship by the housemaster. He was attractive, which was not uncommon among the Daedric or Daelish alike; they were both admired and loathed for carrying fair complexions and what were considered refined, angelic features. He was also smart. Probably too smart for his own good, for it was also no secret that the Golden Boy enjoyed scheming in his own way. It was a pastime for him when he had nothing better to do.

Infamy thrives on a duality. A reputation can afford perks that perhaps would otherwise be unattainable. However, fame can also breed such a pride as to blind one from their potential downfall. Attaining this recognition for Zevran was wholly by accident, but once he had it, the high was more intense than any herb he could refine or woman he could lure. And the lengths he would go to keep it were to define his character for the rest of his days.

It was made clear to Zevran early in his stay at House Arnii that he would learn a trade. Something of use to the House, that is. Taliesen was to see to it personally and apprenticed the young lad much like his father did for him. Already for a year, the housemaster worked with the Daedric to at least handle a weapon, but upon realizing that the younger had an aptitude, the tutorship became more like a mission to see just how far he could go with it.

Taliesen’s mantra of improvisation continued to ring true, but he deliberately chose to train his student to use a set of daggers with a technique perfected by the northern Unt tribes in the Qunari lands. The housemaster thought the style suited his small stature better and would certainly come off as a shock against anyone traditionally trained. 

Taliesen beamed proudly as he recalled how his father specialized in all sorts of underhanded fencing. “The Arl was particularly fond of swordplay. The Orlesian jousts and hunts bored him, he said. You use too much of the animal’s skill over your own.”

The pair would meet daily, usually in the late afternoon or early evening before one of the Salty Brood collected them for dinner and, if coin was spare, drinks and music later at the tavern.

“I mean, how hard is it to hold a stick on a horse?” The housemaster mused as he accepted some well water. It was fall and the afternoon breeze was cool on his back, “These knights would get all spry in their shiny sets of armor – Maker, you should have seen them, Zev! I knew the armorer’s nephew and he would tell me stories about what it took to get those fat bastards on the back of a stud. And for what point? These knights neh go to battle in such things, but buck about like cocks on roost. Could you imagine the faff in this City should the Princes put on a show like that?”

Zevran smirked at the recollection of the housemaster’s far off memories. The descriptions seemed foreign and unrealistic. A swordsman in armor? What a laughable idea. A metal guard he could understand, but an entire set would just slow a man down. Make him a target. And the pinching. He could only think how it must smell, especially on a hot summer day.

“How did they meet?”

Taliesen put down the clay mug and retrieved his sparring stick, “My father and the Arl? Oh, I nigh know. Denerim, I think.”

Zevran continued to lean on the side of the well and casually prodded, “So, do you still know the Arl, then?”

“Ack, No!” He cried, sighing into the air with a smile, “These are just stories of a past life, my friend. Nothing more.”

That was not completely true and Zevran knew it. Ever since his first errand with the housemaster and his candid admission over the fire, the Daedric felt that longing to return to some memory of home as keenly as he felt his own. Taliesen was far less willing to reveal to the younger anything that made him appear weak after that, yet he continued to tell tales of his youth that spun fantastical compared to their simple brick and plaster dwelling in Dockside. Denerim was the City of Dogs, as Taliesen described it, much like Antiva was the City of Steps. Many miles of grasslands and bogs and mountains separated the townships by a long golden road up to the sleepy hamlet of Highever. Castles were built thick like strongholds protected by moats and bridges. People kept to themselves, mostly. The Chantry was everywhere.

Through their daily lessons, the two spent much of their time chatting. Zevran guessed Taliesen just desired someone to talk to, and the younger, being a captive audience and from a similar conscripted background, appealed to him as a teacher might look upon a student. The housemaster rarely asked him questions about his past, which was fine by the young man, for he had few tales of worthy note and the subjects the Shem presented often echoed similar yarns the old Master would retell, only from Southern kingdoms rather than the North.

Zevran learned that Taliesen was very close to the Arl’s eldest son, Marius, and it struck him that their friendship may not have been as simple as the housemaster made it out to be. They were inseparable from their first meeting and as the pair grew up, they would conjure dreams about escaping the confines of the keep for greater adventures. Marius held no desire to take on his father’s passions or roles when his time came, passing instead to his younger brother Fergus. And Taliesen, unbound by stately restraint, was more than happy to indulge him, promising him even that they could always find a way to make the world right. Zevran wanted to inquire further what that meant, but the subject was already quite personal and his colleague suddenly became morose, electing to finish their lesson early that day.

The housemaster would also wax lyrical about the how social the Arl’s family was and the annual festivals they held where the common folk clad themselves in masks to drink and dance late into the night.

“Sounds quite Orlesian,” the Daedric noted, recalling similar stories of the Gran Marque te la Bête, a verbose celebration which ushered in the fall season over Val Royeaux.

“Well, to be fair, we were Orlesian before the war.” Taliesen winked knowingly, which earned a quizzical reaction. By the time the housemaster came to live in Highever, the war in Fereldan was long over. Rebellions seemed to be commonplace in the South, particularly against Orlais. Formally, the Fereldan-Orlesian conflict started over ever-rising taxes imposed on the Fereldan lords. They could not own their lands nor claim rightful titles their forebears held for centuries. Many of the Banns were also coerced, or forced, to marry into Orlesian families, setting up a tense exchange of loyalties among the townships. After fifty some years of bloodshed and a series of failed uprisings, the final blow came when a would-be king from Redcliffe rose from the dead to lead his army to victory. Such a fable was surely embellished for the sake of history, Zevran believed, but how else to better rally the minds of the defeated than to involve the Maker himself?

“Do you think you will ever go back and see your home again?” Zevran asked one day in passing.

The query was innocent enough and genuine. After all, the world Taliesen described was with such great passion, it was as though he could reach out and show it to the lad. But, it was obvious that such a question was not welcomed. The housemaster snapped his mouth shut tight and straightened. After a moment, he curtly replied, “No.”

As temperamental as Taliesen was, he was equally swift to reframe himself in a better light. He turned to his student once he realized the silence was becoming too awkward and melted into a wry smile, “Why would I crave such things? I found my adventure here.”

The Salty Brood was quite a jovial bunch, once Zevran figured out what made each member tick. Cerelus was easy – he enjoyed a good bottle of brandy, which sounded straightforward enough until the Daedric attempted to actually find the one he requested. The older Shem was the first to recognize the young man’s golden touch with the merchants and was keen to wring out as much as he could with this good fortune. Two years later, the off-mentioned bottle became a running joke among privy housemembers, until one day a dainty cushioned satchel was placed squarely in the center of the tavern table, a feline grin plastered on the Daedric’s sharp chin.

Cerelus, unprepared, fumbled a bit in shock, “How did you come by this?!”

His grin widened and he flashed golden eyes with a laugh. He won it, but he was not about to tell a table of armed men about such luck, “I have my ways.”

“Pay up, old man!” Velnas reached toward the purse as Cerelus snatched it protectively. The table broke into hearty sniggers.

“No, no!” Zevran held up a hand amiably, “Consider it a favor. Those are far more valuable.”

Velnas and Borne always worked together. They treated each other like brothers; although it was clear they were not related. Velnas had a very dark skin and held a giant’s gate much like Cregin. He was witty and smart too as he often caught onto Zevran’s jokes before anyone else at the table. Borne, one the other hand, was more brawn than brain. Only slightly smaller than his friend, he was fair and broad. He was easily amused and angered, which made for a frightening combination when he was filled with ale or worked up by some story. The pair met while in the Free Marches. They were fighting on opposites sides of a war and decided one day that they had enough of the senseless violence. In Velnas’ mind, becoming mercenaries with a goal could pay them far better than hacking at faceless foes for a landlord he would never meet, nor from which he would ever benefit from their victory.

Cregin came from a similar background, only he was a soldier, not a mercenary, and originated somewhere near Rivaine. He was a serious fellow and usually quiet. Built like a mountain, he reminded Zevran of the descriptions he read about the Qunari, mindful and foreboding. He had a sense of humor though and liked a good practical joke. He also had family in the North and would send back trinkets he found to his sister when he had the chance. The notion of a housemember having a family not tied to the guild caught Zevran off guard at first, especially after the story Taliesen told. But then again, the tallest Shem was not born into the Crows, so perhaps he was spared such obligations.

Of all the housemembers, the only one Zevran was unable to crack was Ren. The Daelish roommate was rarely around and when he was, he was either readying himself for an errand or busying himself marking others. His specialty was tattoos, which unsurprisingly, made him a favorite among not only the brethren of House Arnii, but other Houses as well. If someone wanted to be marked, he was required to supply the ink. And the ink Ren needed was expensive, made from a combination of a fine mud, ground stone, and wood bark from the Halth’le tree. The mud gave the ink texture; the stone color. Zevran could not figure out what the bark was for, but knew the tree came from the Daelish Wood and was likely what gave the ink excessive value.

Taliesen had been pressuring Zevran to get his brand marked for months. And for months, the Daedric man had been avoiding the suggestion. It was not that he was unwilling to be tattooed. On the contrary, he thought the markings Ren completed were beautiful and intricate. He just really disliked the Daelish man. Ren was sullen and visibly held a disdain for Zevran ever since he stepped foot into House Arnii. Nothing the younger did was adequate, and he could not understand where the unbridled hatred stemmed from. And it was not without effort. Zevran tried talking, bribing, offering favors in return for tutorship. Nothing worked. In fact, the harder he tried, the more visceral the reactions became. Ren felt pestered, and Zevran was like a mosquito to him.

One day, a small glass vial was dropped into Zevran’s lap. He was attempting to sharpen a knife Taliesen gave him for common use. It was a poor blade, but he had little money even with the early errand given to him, and he was trying to save up for something better. The lad stopped what he was doing to glare into the sunny forum.

The housemaster stood over him with his usual candor. A straw of grass stuck out of the side of his thin, long face and he announced, “It’s time.”

Zevran sighed, “For what?”

“Just get it done,” was all he said as he walked back into the house. The younger immediately knew what the older meant and a deep groan escaped him. He had little choice than to seek Ren out after that, and the next time he spotted the slender, raven-haired fellow, he plucked up the courage to approach him.

It was an uncharacteristic meeting as the Daelish man was at the tavern that evening, which was a rare occurrence on its own, and he seemed to be in a cheerful mood. To Zevran, Ren appeared completely different when he smiled. All the darkness in his eyes seemed to clear away, revealing a deep pool of blue waves. He was quite charming as well, when he wished to be, occasionally telling a story of his own to the crowd of weary travellers.

He sat down next to the Daelish man and felt his roommate stiffen. A frown etched Ren’s refined face, straining the scars down his left cheek as he peered over at the younger cautiously.

Zevran took a breath and almost slammed the vial on the table. He was growing tired of this game.

Ren stared at the jar momentarily; banter continued around them undisturbed. The pause lingered a little too long, and Zevran was about to give up when he finally replied, “Meet me in the back forum tomorrow. Bring the vial and two ginny.”

Two ginny! He had the audacity to charge him? Confronted by such an insult, the Daedric swivel back with red-hot anger before he was cut short of a retort.

“Ren,” came a warning across the table. Taliesen send an icy scowl that seemed to convey his message. The roommate broke into a jeering smirk and waved the offense off with a tisk.

As instructed, reluctantly, Zevran emerged in the back forum the following day, sans ginny. If Ren wanted money, he was going to have to fight for it. His roommate was already there, waiting for him in the shade under the far side eves. This was his spot where he chose to do all of his arrow trimming and needlework for various gear he acquired. As basic as the supplies the housemembers could afford, the Daelish man had a way of decorating his things uniquely enough to make it evident to whom the items belonged – loath anyone who dared touch it.

“Sit down,” he commanded. A set of tools was laid out beside him on a leather mat and as Zevran acquiesced, he issued another, “Ink.”

He did not know what to expect. The tools were long, needle-like reeds that were tapped into the skin over and over by a tiny mallet. Past observation showed that the process took a considerable amount of time and discomfort given the expression on the various men’s faces. The results were nice, but all nice things came with a sacrifice.

Zevran took off his shirt and Ren surveyed his upper back. He gave a grunt and nodded shrewdly, “I now understand why he wanted it marked.”

He jerked back with uncertainty, “What are you talking about?”

Ren tapped on his right shoulder blade over the brand, “You can hardly see it. Apparently, your attempt to mend it was too successful.”

“Great,” Zevran groused. He guessed this was better than another round with a hot poker. The embossed mark was still there; he could acutely feel it as Ren went to work around the edges first. Keen not to appear pathetic, he kept most of the wincing concealed and was glad he was at least facing away from his nemesis.

Several hours passed, and with it, the pain merged into a numbing boredom. Ren was focused, only pausing to get a closer look or wipe something away. Zevran had to sit stock still in a rather uncomfortable position, with his knees up and back straight. Chewing on his cheek, he became lost in thought to pass the time. He thought of the road he and the Master travelled on to the North when he was young. He was nearly ten and the old man wanted that special plant from the Daelish Wood. The edge of the forest was stark in his memory, although he never recalled caring much when he was there. He remembered how withdrawn the Master was about entering, and the thought invoked a passage from his favored book still hidden deep in a crate in the attic.

“Let all those enter know the wrath of my people.”

Ren paused as Zevran continued to blithely ponder over the past.

“What did you say?”

He nudged up and quickly glanced before replying, “Oh, neh. It’s just a thought.”

Ren squinted, his words tinted with doubt, “You speak Daelish?”

Zevran stilled himself as he recognized the error, for he uttered the sentence in the foreign dialect. No one, aside from Taliesen, knew he could read and write, and even then the housemaster assumed only Orlesian and Antivan. He chuckled a bit and shrugged, “I know bits and pieces.”

The pause lingered and he was afraid another argument was at hand. If Ren was especially secretive of anything, it was his culture. He was strangely prideful despite abandoning the woodlands for life in the City. He dipped his reed into the inkwell before inquiring, “And what else do you know?”

“Oh, I always thought it was rather silly that the Shem call the forest to the north the Daelish Wood.” This was his chance to be cheeky and get out of this predicament. He clucked, “The ‘Wood One’s Wood.’”

His snark earned a guffaw, and a heartening relief washed over him. After a moment, the Daelish man’s voice perked up over his shoulder, “And do you know where the word Daedric comes from?”

Daedric was a common, more polite word for the city elvhen, the myriad of migrants released onto Thedas after the Exhalted March on the Dales many, many years ago. Zevran read all about their history among a series of tomes the Master kept in his archive, albeit they were written from the Shem perspective. The books cited that the fall of the Daelish was punishment for crimes against the Maker; their kin were left to suffer a wondering eternity, never to return home. Many accepted the wisdom of Andraste, however, her teaching and the healing power of the Chantry, and mercy was gifted upon them. They were accepted into the Shemlen cities, incorporated into their culture in exchange for their own. The term used to describe the city folk was so similar to their nomadic relatives; one might even argue they sounded the same, lest a linguist carefully distinguished the syllables correctly.

The lad grinned and chimed, “The ‘walled people.’”

“No, that is nigh right.” The tone was flat and sinister. Ren seemed to have renewed interest in finishing the tattoo as he corrected his younger brother, “True, Dae’lish does mean ‘one of the wood’. Tell me though, with all your great vision, what does ‘dric’ mean?”

He was confused. Knitting his brows, he halfhazardly answered with the word he knew to be correct, “Wall.”

“Yes. ‘Walled wood.’” He was matter of fact, and it dawned on the younger that he might have mistranslated, or the books he read misrepresented, the meaning of the phrase. The reed felt harsh on his upper back as Ren recited in his native tongue, “As the wall closed on the Venadahl, so did the light upon it leaves casting her children into darkness. They forget. And they are happy for it.”

It was foolish for Zevran to believe Ren detested him for some little known crime he may have committed. Like the Shem, Ren disliked his kind. It was simple as that, and the notion only served to further perplex and infuriate the young man.

He waited until the marking was finished to ask his question. Seeing as there was no way to win this fellow over any time soon, Zevran was eager to tell him what he thought, “If you are so convinced, then why are you here? Go back to your wood if you despise this place so rather than inflict me with your regret.”

For a moment, his roommate was stunned silent; he was left peering up through his jet bangs into calm, yet focused eyes. The response, delivered in the same dialect, was remarkably articulate, lacking any fear or remorse. He eventually recovered though, leaning to one side to start cleaning the reeds and inkwell, speaking intently as he went, “I nigh would, had I choice.”

But he was not yet finished. Zevran stood and looked down upon his brethren for the first time with a sense of resentment, “Choices are nigh given but taken, my friend. You should make use of what you have rather than squander it.”

Their rapport was shaky at best. Several months passed before Ren would even tolerate Zevran in the same room again after he dared lecture the older on the challenges of life. What did he know about wasted skill and knowledge anyway? He was a child, arrogant and willful.

True, he may have been willful enough, but Zevran harbored more skill than most in Tern. He was certainly instilled the wisdom early in his youth to not wallow in his circumstances like a beggar at the Chantry. He was to make the best out of what he deemed a bad situation. After all, as the housemaster pointed out on many an occasion, things could be far, far worse.


	16. Part Three Chapter Two

Along with Taliesen’s tittering about how fortunate his conditions were, his warnings were equally clear. The housemaster knew the Daedric lad came from some educated background, and he occasionally let slip that such awareness was unsettling. In fact, he was swift to exact discipline if he thought his pupil was becoming too boisterous. To know one’s place was a fundamental, unspoken rule in the Guild that never sat well with Zevran who needed to understand the why more than the what and when and how of things.

To the housemaster’s face, the young man was obedient if not a bit caged. But the truth was, Zevran was bored. It had been six months since his first errand, and since the pair returned from the tiny town of Banch, Taliesen was disinclined to give him anything other than his daily routine. A third Vantenii came and went that winter, and the brothers all seemed a bit disappointed with the product in the cushioned satchel, Zevran most of all because he was given nothing.

In his boredom, the lad spent most of his time at several key places. The Nevarran merchants, Izeek and Nabul, were always welcoming and they could easily spend an entire morning chatting and heckling the passersby. He would even run errands for them into Tern in exchange for items at their stall. The afternoons were typically with Taliesen in the back forum unless the housemaster was away or called upon by the Vancor or the Guild Master. The rest of his time was usually spent split between listening to the near constant vibrato of the Salty Brood at the local tavern, watching the courtesans pitter about on their daily affairs, casually flirting and offering to escort them if needed, or scribbling his thoughts down on stolen parchment if Taliesen happened to be away.

The housemaster hinted at grave consequences if anyone knew of Zevran’s past. Apparently to be a floraesen was a distinguished trade in the Guild reserved for specific Houses. Zevran knew nothing of this when he was a child under the tutelage of the Master, and it seemed that the old man cared little for such formality. He was certainly not one to explain himself to anyone. For whatever reason, he chose to teach the lad a dark art, and he took that secret with him to the grave. The only thing that mattered now was what the lad planned to do with this gift. For years, he memorized and transcribed tomes for the old man. When the Master went blind and grew tired in the evenings, his little assistant began preparing the powders and eventually was taught to combine the components for his expecting visitors the following day. By the time the old floraesen passed away, indeed, the young man was equipped to take over in his place, had he the option.

Zevran spent many hours thinking about this. Perhaps that was the old man’s intention. But because he was never formally inducted into the Guild, his skills were to remain hidden. The advantage he might have was exciting, and the lad carefully inspected the heirloom he brought with him to House Arnii. Perhaps the use of this skill could show his worth to the Guild, and then he would have something to do.

From then on, Zevran did everything in his power to ignore the warnings bequeathed by the housemaster. It started with recalling any memory of the elixirs he prepared in his final months with the Master. Most were relatively simple, and the lad would spend his evenings jotting down the ingredients he could recollect and the required techniques for a mending salve, several common sedatives, and a poison.

He needed to acquire more than notes to execute this knowledge, however. Ideally, he wanted a book to work from; one of the basic thin works that the Master would always refer to entitled ‘On the Common Cuttings in the Woodlands and Deserts.’ Without it, he needed to recognize the names and attributes of each herb on memory, and if all else failed, test them personally. But there was a problem with this plan – Zevran was poor. He used his rapport with the Nevarrans to source a stone mortar and pestle and kept it hidden with the antique lantern in the attic. The herbs and jars to store his products were not so easy to come by though, and he was unable to afford everything that he needed.

So the Daedric man resorted to finding what he knew he could on his own and only requested what was not immediately available with the excuse that the House needed them for some benign reason and a promise to repay the merchants when he could. Rinet was one such herb not native to Antiva but that the Nevarrans could easily find among their stock. The dried moss was common in the north and was used to preserve certain meats like a mold rind on cheese. Zevran collected mud, along with seaweed he planned to use for one of the sedatives, from the coastline. He had to wade farther into the ocean than was he comfortable with to get it, but if he went at low tide, the waves were not so rough. Fruit seeds were easy to collect and the lad would tuck what he did not eat away for later. He dried out pig bones from the tavern kitchen for bone meal along with sea salt and several jars he nicked from the cook. He even managed to wrangle a bottle of port out of Cerelus if he could last through a drinking game with Cregin. The last request took four tries and resulted in one of the worst headaches he ever felt the following day.

By spring, Zevran acquired everything he needed to produce his first set of elixirs. His chest puffed out a bit as he surveyed his stash in the attic. The loft was large and extended the length of the entire House with a shuttered window at one end looking down onto the alleyway that lead to the local tavern. The single entrance was small and had a makeshift ladder, of which he removed entirely to keep others out. Instead, he would just hoist himself up by using the stair rail on the upper landing as leverage. Much like the far back forum was Ren’s space, the attic was Zevran’s.

One morning early into spring, Zevran was called into Taliesen’s private quarters. The housemaster had just returned from an errand the previous evening, and it was evident he was tired from the long journey. When the Daedric appeared in the doorway, he noticed his roommate sitting opposite at the makeshift desk. Glares were exchanged.

Taliesen paid no mind to their rivalry and spoke as he pondered over a parchment before him, “Come over here and sit.”

Something panged in his stomach, and Zevran briefly wondered if he had been caught. For months, he was stealing small stashes of paper and using the ink and quill for his own purposes, careful to return everything he did not use to its original place. Ren puffed on a long pipe he was fond of, leaning back against the wall and eying his young comrade menacingly from the cool shady corner.

Positioning himself between them, he tentatively waited for Taliesen to speak up again. The housemaster pushed the paper aside and rubbed his eyes sleepily, “I have an errand from the Vancor.”

From the many evenings querying his House brethren, Zevran was able to surmise that different groups issued certain the types of errands. The Vancor handled standard requests and commissioned them to the best bid. The requests could range from not only thefts or kidnappings, but also to act as bodyguards, escorts, or even simply to oversee a business transaction between discrete parties. Errands issued by the Guild Master, on the other hand, were tailored for a specific person or House. They could be similar errands as issued by the Vancor, but were higher profile and not always advertised for a bid. 

“Have either of you heard of the Charm of E’lie?” Taliesen asked, glancing between the pair. Both housemembers shook their heads, and he returned a half smile, “Well, if Antivans must steal anything, it may as well be from Orlais, yes? The Charm of E’lie is a holy artifact carried by only the most desired members of the Orlesian Chantry. Our House has been tasked to steal it.”

“Is that nigh sinful?” Zevran inquired. His cohorts chuckled.

“Well, I supposed that is for the Maker to decide,” the housemaster mused. He continued with a sudden flush of enthusiasm, “The Rogue Prince has arranged a feast at the Chantry to welcome the Empress’ Grand Cleric and her entourage in a fortnight time. You two must take this opportunity to locate and steal, without incident, this most cherished of items.”

To steal from the Chantry. Who would ask such a thing? Zevran sat upright and peered toward his roommate for a response.

Ren pulled out the pipe, “How much does it pay?”

Taliesen mulled over the number, “About twenty Antivan after the House.”

He tisked and flicked his finger toward Zevran, “You expect me to split this?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“I want fifteen of it.”

“What!” The younger nearly fell over. He spat at his roommate, “If I do half the work, I get half the pay.”

“If you do half the work,” He squinted back. “A shriveled flat-ear falls into this house, nigh knows teat from his ma, and you want me to think he has skill to offer?”

“I’m nigh useless!”

“Rich!” He jeered, “Is that why you nigh know use of a blade or an arrow? You feign courage in the forum whilst you buckle under the task.”

“Buckle under the task,” Zevran repeated.

“Oh, I heard,” Ren turned more fully, his gaze filled with mockery, “I know how you neh asked for this.”

The young man side-glanced toward Taliesen. The Shem tapped quietly on the parchment, his jaw clenched, apparently letting the pair hash out their disagreement without his input. A sense of betrayal momentarily took hold as Zevran sullenly returned to Ren, “Well, at least I nigh ran away to prove my worth!”

Ren twitched at the barb as though Zevran knocked onto a deeper hidden truth.

“Stop.” A long palm reached out between the pair and slapped it on the corner of the table to get their attention. Taliesen, normally apathetic to bickering among his juniors, was not in the mood, and with a sigh and low scowl, he made his final statement to Ren, “You take half or you take nothing.”

The Daelish man’s brows knit together like he was just insulted. He paused before replying flatly, “I’ll nigh work with this pike.”

There was a long silence in the space as Ren casually stood and left, leaving behind Taliesen to steep in his frustration.

Zevran sat idle, confused and offended by his housemate’s actions. If anyone else had questioned the housemaster so abruptly, he would have been quickly rebuked; yet, there was no retaliation for Ren. Another notion stuck out for him that made little sense too. He looked to Taliesen and asked, “Such a valued item, and it only fetches twenty gold? Surely, you could negotiate better terms, no?”

The housemaster pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped, “What do you know of the value of such things, ah?! Twenty Antivan is the price, and you’ll be happy for it!”

Zevran felt like a chastised child. What was worse was the realization that he was being overlooked because of his past obstinacy. His childhood fantasy of the Guild vaporized the moment he left the villa steps two years prior. Perhaps to the House, all his worth amounted to that of a porter, his sole purpose to deliver parcels for the rest of his days. This notion did not sit well with him, and although the Daedric lad was unhappy with the idea of his newfound profession, he recoiled at the thought that people might consider him a coward.

As unwilling as Ren was to work with him, he liked the idea even less. Taliesen had a private word with the Daelish man later that day, and the two came to an agreement that seemed fair to them. Ren could have his bid if he gave Zevran a sharpening tool he could use. The Daedric lad wanted to vehemently stand his ground, but it was as though Taliesen expected his student to complain and swiftly informed him the discussion was over.


	17. Part Three Chapter Three

It was not long before the fateful evening of their task came to bear. Ren clarified that he was in charge and informed the younger that they were to meet at dusk in the back forum. Zevran was already prepared, however. It was time, he thought, to use this technique he kept in restraint. To show what he was really worth.

Silently, they headed up the Golden Mile. At night, the City streets were lined with fire. Torches set the cream plaster buildings in a warm gilded light. Even the polished, sandy cobbles glowed with a flicker like the ocean at sunrise. Ren knew of a path to the backside of the Chantry. There stood a giant stone wall separating the abbey from the Merchant district.

Without effort, the Daelish man climbed the stonework. Once at the top, he sat up on his heels and surveyed the cloister.

Zevran looked for foothold to climb. He was not as adept as his colleague. Peering up, he questioned, “What do you see?”

Ren hushed him with a forefinger in a scolding manner and continued to watch the inner wall for guards. With the Orlesians came the Chevalier. An army all their own, their notoriety spread as far as the Crows in Thedas, or so it was said. Men clad in shiny steel, the persona they emitted echoed that of the regal knights Taliesen went on about. Perhaps they rode horses too.

“Keep keen,” Ren’s voice picked up as he disappeared on the other side of the wall.

Perhaps he should stay behind. The thought pleased him briefly if it were not for all of the effort we went to already. He scaled the wall somewhat less gracefully and landed hard on his feet from the drop. The churchyard was empty, and the lad was met with a grassy expanse that opened out onto a forum filled with roses and pathways, stony benches and fountains. Beyond was another cream plaster barricade outlining the five white spires of the Chantry. The outer wall was lined with apple trees, their fruity branches intertwined from generations of growth. The pair’s silhouettes clung behind one such tree as they made plans for their next move.

His roommate turned to him, “I want you to stay here and keep watch.”

Perhaps he should have stayed on the other side. Zevran arched delicate brows down in objection, unable to fully articulate his shock, “For what! The charm is inside. You expect me to just wait for you?”

“Yes, I expect you to keep out of trouble.” Ren stated bluntly, although there was no disdain in his tone. He inhaled through his teeth, peering around the tree and toward a walkway on the inner wall as he continued, “It may take me a while to find it, and I nigh need you nipping at my heels.”

He said it as though he was doing the younger a favor, and Zevran knelt back chewing on his cheek in irritation. He could say what he really thought, but he knew it would only lead to a fight, and that would spoil the artfulness of their surprise. Taliesen would be angry and all his effort would be wasted. His roommate stood after a long silence, the crickets chirping happily in the spring evening with a full moon above them. Finally, he chose his approach toward the back of the churchyard.

“To your left,” Zevran blurted. He could not help himself, even if it meant giving his strategy away. Now out in the open, Ren turned back, noting the guard above them walking the other way, and quizzically shook his head. The lad chastised himself under his breath and spoke again, “The best entrance is to your left. The wooden door.”

Ren turned to where the lad pointed and then darted toward the inner wall until he was in shadow again. Crouching down, he eyed his brother warily with a glint that even Zevran could see.

Zevran already knew where to enter the Chantry because he knew the layout. Two days after the deal was struck between Ren and the housemaster, the lad chose to make a personal visit to the Chantry. He told himself it was to say a prayer for luck, but what he really wanted was a clearer picture of his conquest. The Grand Hall brimmed with a soothing hum, a lengthy sermon consoling the weary traveller of peace:

O Maker, hear my cry:   
Guide me through the blackest nights   
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked   
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

\- Transfigurations 12:1

He would occasionally visit the Grand Hall when he felt lonely, always trailing the outer wall of the sanctum like he did as a child. The Hall was long and narrow, the arching ceiling were built to move sound around so that all the corners of the City could hear its echo. A series of hidden alcoves revealed themselves behind wide stone pillars along his path, each housing statues praising long dead clerics of the Antivan Order. Zevran walked by them so many times before that he started to memorize them, as he could not help but peak into the darkened shelter to see if anyone was there.

The Grand Hall was only a minor part of the Chantry though. Its footprint spread out into that of a star, each wing of which led to private and public quarters, reception halls, and service wards. At the center, connecting all of the branches like a glorious web stood a mighty rotunda. Zevran stood at the base, peering up into the morning bright light illuminating the elegant statue of Andraste through a series of stained glass windows. Her serine form was meant to offer peace to all those who gazed upon her.

Randomly, he chose an arched wooden door to his left of the Grand Hall to further explore, although he was at a loss as to what he expected to find. Surely, if there was to be a feast, the first place he should start is the kitchen. He came prepared, armed with a wrapped parcel of spices from Dockside as a delivery, should anyone ask. 

“Eh, what may you?” 

The second door in the corridor opened into a massive room. Intricate blue tile work arched across the walls and ceiling to culminate over a giant hearth at one end. Around the edges were lined a series of stoves and ovens. The center housed two wooden tables, one burdened with a heavy pile with various goods from the garden, while over the other cured meat hung from above. An older Daedric woman stood over a small table toward the back under a window. She was busily cutting a stack of herbs. The scent of rosemary filled the space.

“Pike, I neh have the day!” The Daedric seethed from her station, still hacking at the mound, “Tell me what you need.”

Zevran was a bit caught off guard and he lurched into the kitchen, his hand outstretched, “I’ve come with a parcel.”

She pointed with the tip of her large knife at the corner of her table. As Zevran approached, she finally looked up at him, an expression of seriousness and worry permanently etched around her eyes and mouth.

“What is this?” She demanded, poking at the linen before it was even out of the young man’s hand.

“Spice, as requested.”

She jerked up, “I nigh requested spice. Who is this from?”

This was a problem he had not thought about. He floundered, “The Bahne House. The kitchen suggested you might need some.”

Zevran pulled the House’s name from a deep childhood memory. Many merchants visited the Master over the years, and all of their homes nested around the Chantry. The cook eyed him suspiciously before looking back down at the parcel with a sardonic laugh, “And Murin thought this would be enough?”

His eyes widened. That parcel was enough to spice a month’s worth of meals for an entire House, “How much do you need?”

Uninterested, she returned to her work, “I’m tending three hundred guests for the next week, so the Grand Cleric says. This neh gives me worth!”

Puzzled, the young man proposed, “I could get more.”

“Oh? You could, eh?” The maid paused, her long knife easing down onto the stone cutting board. Gritting her teeth, she looked back up to Zevran as though we she might spit venom, her words and her patience only halted by a seemingly genuine offer. After a moment, she relaxed and considered the fellow, “Well, I need much more than that. The Chantry is all for prayer, none for stock after all.”

He took a breath and asked, “How much?”

“About six as many of these,” she pointed to the linen with her knife. “And I need it quickly!”

This was his opportunity to get involved. Perhaps then he could explore, as no one might suspect a simple Daedric servant’s curiosity if he had reason to be there. His expression morphed into a brilliant smile and he nodded, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Perhaps the cook did not expect him to return, but Zevran visited the Nevarrans the next morning to call on yet another favor anyway. The spice was easy to come by. Everyone in the City used it, and the parcels were one of the primary exports of Tern. Each small linen was stuffed with a mixture of cloves, garlic, sea salt, and a myriad of other herbs, depending on the season, to dry meats, stock stew, and provide added flavor to sauces when needed. Still, although the parcels were simple to find, such an amount was costly. If the lad really wanted access to the Chantry, it would cost him his share of the prize.

Three days later, he returned to the kitchen. The cook was struck silent that her porter actually followed through, only noting curtly that the Maker looked well upon his donation. Zevran, quick to make use of this good will, offered to help the staff prepare in the mornings. It would be pious work to serve the Chantry on such an auspicious and rare occasion. She accepted the offer, probably because she was understaffed, and every morning thereafter, at daybreak, the lad cautiously skipped out of House Arnii and up the Golden Mile to the Merchant District.

The Chantry was vast. For every corridor he found, another set of stairs or doorway led to yet another corridor or causeway. Zevran assumed that the Chantry kept their most cherished treasures on the ground floor or in a cellar. He also assumed that the place was guarded. Yet, as he wondered between deliveries throughout the campus, he never once saw a guard. That was until several days before the feast was set, when the Orlesian Grand Cleric arrived. The entire structure came alive then with people rushing about, many of whom were simply trying to prepare the final touches. The bells rang for three days straight.

Zevran paid little attention except to spy down the Grand Hall and see if he could catch a glimpse of the Charm of E’lie. Suddenly, it seemed as though everyone in the City had just discovered Andraste’s wisdom, and the Hall was packed solid with residents from Dockside to the Steps, all in their best. The morning sermon hum rang clear, and climbing onto one of his favorite statues, the lad positioned himself above the crowd. Kneeling within the central rotunda were the two Grand Clerics, hand in hand. To the right of the pair, stood a long staff, its socket housing a bright orange light. He was too far away to see the orb clearly, but the sight awed him enough.

The sermon finished and the doors flushed the Merchant District with its noontide. Zevran clung to the outer wall of the sanctum and watched where the Clerics retired before following discretely behind. Up the far corridor and to the right into a sunken passage was where he needed to go. Yet, early the following morning, the lad found himself standing tall against the door fitted with a thick, sturdy lock. Frustration nipped loudly, as he was unable to pick such things.

“Oy, you look lost.”

Zevran was lost on the lock he was silently willing free. Jerking up to the accent, the lad turned to a much taller, steel-shirted man.

The Orlesian looked down at him with a bored, terse expression. Muddling over his mistake, Zevran simply asked, “What’s on the other side of this door.”

He could not tell if the Shem soldier was amused or irritated. Snickering, he leaned down nonchalantly and gave his order, “Leave.”

Zevran got the message and slunk back to the kitchen defeated. He should have guessed it would be this way. But, in the City filled with the gold pockets of its merchants lined with the daggers of their personal assassins, it never occurred to the Daedric that a lock might be required. That was not the Antivan way of things.

For such a busy time, the kitchen was rather quiet. Rounding the corner, he caught sight of a young maid spreading meal for afternoon bread. She glanced up and the two halted in their tracks. 

She gushed a smile and offered a nod, “I’ve seen you here before.”

“Oh?” Zevran raised a brow. He would have known if he had seen her on his daily errands. Her mousy hair was tied snugly into a braid, accentuating the sharp angles of her cheeks. She was Daedric, but not the typical raven-haired variety that hid in the City’s passages and terrace yards. She was young, about his age, and carried a foreign quality about her. He reached for a bowl of olives and pulled at one, “I’ve neh seen you. Where are you from?”

Her blue eyes brightened as she blushed. Her accent was thick, stunted, “Val Royeaux. I am here to serve her Grace a taste from home.”

An Orlesian Daedric who can speak Antivan. Zevran bit his cheek from asking too many questions. He coughed, “So, you came here with all the guards?”

“The Chevalier?” She confirmed and nodded meekly, “They keep us safe.”

“They look mighty dangerous, no?” He quipped.

She giggled, and he internally sighed. Something about her, an invisible aura of simplicity and humility perhaps, radiated from her in such a way that made him feel calm. The silence became awkward though, rewarding them with another round of stifled laughter.

“They may seem… cold,” She explained, kneading the dough in her hands, “but they live a righteous life serving the Maker. Like family.”

“Do you know them, then - the Guards with you?”

Her smile widened and she winked, “Of course. We are like kin.”

He coyly mused over the dough she held and inquired, “Do you know what they’re guarding then? There is a locked chamber. So odd here, you see.”

The maid thought for a moment. Perhaps in Orlais, locked cupboards and guards were nothing new. Her melodic voice perked up again, “The Grace brings with her the love of the Maker. Such things must be kept safe.”

“The love of the Maker,” He cooed. The way she spoke sounded so romantic. “You mean the light in the Great Hall?”

She nodded, setting the dough aside to rise. Wiping her hands on her apron, she recalled it like a dream, “His love is a star that fell from Heaven. From its light his beauty pours so we may all know.”

Zevran rested his refined chin on his palm and listened with rapt attention. His golden eyes squinted a little in response, “You speak as though you’ve seen it, yes?”

Embarrassed, she clung to herself, another blush flourishing across her face, and blinking a couple of times, she attempted to hide a grin with her petite hand. The sudden change in her demeanor had the lad standing upright, unsure if he said something rude. The maid composed herself though, looking around the empty room before she exposed the secret with a whisper, “Jacques showed me once. I was in such awe!”

He closed the distance between them to keep the disclosure quiet, feigning intrigue over such gossip, “Who is this Jacques?”

“Oh, he is a Chevalier,” she simpered, almost whimsically. “He keeps it close when the Grace nigh can.”

He took a step closer with flirtatious smirk, “You seem rather close to Jacques, no?”

She huffed, clenching her jaw tight at such as thought. When she realized this did not faze the Antivan, she let out a giggle and relaxed again, “He is always so kind to me. I asked, and he obliged.”

Zevran tisked in thought, “Such a kind favor. You should do something for him in return, yes?”

“Such as?”

“You could give him a gift,” he offered, “to show your appreciation. For his duty, of course.”

She soured a bit, something Zevran did not want, “But, I nigh have such things.”

He went on to suggest for her, “You could offer him a bottle of Antivan port. They are quite good here.”

Even her pout was sweet to him. She pursed thin lips and admitted, “I nigh have coin. Where am I to find it?”

“I could get it for you,” he countered.

She paused, unsure how to receive such a suggestion. Every exchange comes with a price of some kind. Subtly, she shook her head, “If anyone should know…”

He had to be quick. Assuredly, he quieted her, “Nigh anyone will. Gift it to him on the evening of the feast. I am sure it would be welcomed, even without his knowing, if it must be.”

The thought sunk in, and the maid began to smile again, “But how shall I pay you?”

He was not going to ask for anything, for the woman was doing exactly what he wanted anyway. But then, he thought he could test his luck. He grinned confidently, biting his lower lip, “From you, I nigh dare ask. If only to see you smile … and perhaps a kiss?”

The awkward giggles returned, and the young Orlesian maid cupped Zevran’s face softly. Leaning in, she tenderly kissed his cheek as a lady might have done for a suitor. This was not exactly what he asked for, but he would take it with good measure. The next day, the bottle, carefully laced with his sedative, rested in her petite hands, and the young man was rewarded with yet a second cultured peck.


	18. Part Three Chapter Four

He could still feel the softness of her lips on his cheek as he sat under the tree in the night. Zevran watched Ren slip through the door and it was only moments later that he took his chance to follow. The consequences be damned, he wanted to see if his plan actually worked.

The door was a side entrance to the kitchen and connected to a series of cellars and hidden corridors servants used to gain access to the eastern side of the Chantry. Ren was nowhere to be seen, and immediately, Zevran crept into the shadows to avoid several staff returning from their tasks. He knew the path by heart and quickly maneuvered his way to the open corridor. The feast was already in full swing, music and distant chatter filling the air, creating a hum within the resonating halls all its own.

The chamber was housed within the far wing lined with living quarters. Even as the lad approach, he knew he was not far behind Ren. He had to admit, the Daelish man had a knack about finding his prize. What took him a week to sniff out took his brother barely an evening. The sunken door was still closed, but the lock was missing. Had Ren picked it or was it already undone? 

Zevran cautiously pushed open the entry. The room opened up into a small foyer scant of furniture save a writing desk and chair. Another adjoining room was fitted with a small bed meant for a Chantry nun. In the center, fast asleep and with his meal unfinished on the floor, laid the guard who so unceremoniously chased the lad away the previous day.

His eyes lit up as he exclaimed, “It worked!”

Ren swiveled back in surprise at Zevran’s entrance, his back now turn on the lifeless guard. However, the expression passed from astonishment to anger as he crossed the space and landed the younger squarely up against the far stone wall.

“You stupid child!” Ren barked, his left palm firmly clutching Zevran’s vest, his right hand wrapped tightly around a dagger at the lad’s throat. He levered the blade against his trapped victim, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Caught up in shock, his breath constricted against the pressure, he answered as best he could, “The same as you, yes?”

His answer did not suffice. The Daelish man leaned in with all the menace he could muster as he spoke, referencing to the guard behind him, “And what game is this?”

“It’s nigh a game!” Zevran protested, but felt the pinch of the blade.

Ren’s intent was deadly. His breathing quickly calmed, but his wrist tightened on the dagger, “You will answer me, or by your Maker, you will nigh leave this room.”

He snapped his eyes open and attempted to sooth his panicked state. Careful to meet his foe on equal footing, he questioned with a quirk of his brow, “Oh? I think you should let me go, else we’ll nigh leave this room, friend.”

Subtly, he pushed the hidden blade up and under Ren’s vest and it was clear the pair was at a stalemate. It was also clear, however, by Zevran’s shaking form, that Ren successfully made his point. With elegance, the Daelish man removed the dagger and let go of his brother, sauntering into back into the bedroom. Without a word, he opened his satchel, grabbed the gem within the socketed staff in the corner, and dropped it into the confines of the purse. As far as he was concerned, his job was done.

Zevran took a moment to regain his bearings. He tried to make things easier and prove some worth other than a watchdog. For all his effort, perhaps he could have done better by simply stealing the artifact on his own. After all, if he had the ability to sneak into the Chantry without arousing attention and render the guard unconscious with a well-placed bottle, what really stopped him from going farther? What a sad predicament that a silly metal latch could impede him so, he admonished.

By the time he reached the corridor, Zevran realized Ren abandoned him to find his own way out. This plan did not go as well as he had hoped.

It was not long before word of the theft spread across the City. No one saw the intruders. The only missing item was the Charm. A state of panic encased the Chantry, and all the doors for mass, usually held open to cast their hymn into the streets, were now heavily guarded for the weeks that followed. A scandal between the Clerics supposedly ensued.

Zevran was unhappy for his part, although privately he was proud that he managed to pull the heist off. Sitting in the shade at the back forum, he awaited Taliesen for practice.

“I heard about your stunt.”

Zevran could guess how Ren likely retold of such a stunt to the housemaster. He managed a grin and sarcastically replied, “You missed all the fun.”

But there was no smile on Taliesen’s face; instead a mask of concern returned down to him. The housemaster spoke plainly, hushed, “You must stop with this.”

He straightened himself against the wall in surprise, “Stop what?”

“So, you play around with herbs. You think it brings worth?”

Zevran grimaced, “It got you what you wanted, no? It’s nigh nothing.”

Taliesen leaned over, “You take too much risk.”

“Nigh anyone saw me!”

“How do you know that?” Teliesen’s response was flat and quick, “It would have been easier to simply kill him.”

“There was nigh need to kill him,” He responded from the floor.

The housemaster was caught by such a self-confident response, and his voice rose slightly in irritation, “You nigh have choice!”

“Oh?” He shot back, eyes widening, “But I do have choice.”

“If the Guild tells you to kill someone, you do it! You do it quietly, and you do it right!”

“But I was nigh tasked with a mark! I was asked to steal a rock – without incident – which I assume means nigh a soul knows of it, dead or alive!” He felt his cheeks redden as though he were against the wall again, this time staring down his housemaster instead of his nemesis. His voice echoed into the forum, “Now that is what I did, and I did it the way I wanted. That is what you espouse, no? All this talk of the Arnii way!”

He was struck silent, studying his youth’s outburst with a mixture of disappointment and uncertainty. Slowly, he came to with more conviction in his words, “Your game is a dangerous one, Zev. Mark me, nigh a soul can know this came from the House of Arnii.”

This was certainly not the response he predicted. For days thereafter, the interactions between Taliesen and Zevran were short and curt. Daily lessons were of instruction with little banter he had become so accustomed to. The young man had to wonder why his actions would set off the housemaster so. Was it his disobedience or something else? The theft went perfectly in his mind, and this alone gave him solace to continue despite such objections.

As unsupportive as the housemaster was, the Salty Brood did not seem so discouraged. Cerelus was the first to pull the Daedric aside at the tavern.

“A bird sang you had a hand in the little clash at the Chantry,” He chittered with a cup of mead as a reward for his golden boy.

Velnas leaned over the table to form a huddle, “How did you do it?”

They were alone, but the attention was still enough to embarrass the young man. Zevran smirked a bit at the memory, “A lovely girl and a bottle of port.”

“Ah, that’s why you wanted the port?” The older Shem questioned.

He nodded, although he deliberately omitted the critical ingredient to his success.

“So you are sly, is that it?” The other fellow complimented, “Keep such games up, you’ll make a secret of yourself, friend.”

To make a secret of oneself was considered more dangerous than outright bragging a tall tale. After all, spun yarns were everywhere, and humble men were few alive to tell. Zevran sat back against the wall and lingered on the honey aroma in his cup, his colleagues filling the gap with fables all their own.

“It could have been easier, though, I must admit,” the lad murmured after a while. He eyed Cerelus and perked up, “You were a prison guard, yes? What do you know about locks?”

Cerelus paused over his mug and chuckled. The white scruff around his mouth bristled in coincidence with the wrinkles around his eyes as he shifted back and forth between Velnas and the younger convert. He took a swig and then spoke, “Silly contraptions, but they have uses.”

“Do you know how to pick them?”

Velnas tilted his cup knowingly, “He nigh would be a good thief if he failed at such, no?”

The older man leaned back to stretch, “You get to my age, you realize they are all just brief barriers.”

“Yes,” suddenly, Zevran was focused on his goal, “and what bribe could I offer you to teach me such a skill?”

The table fell silent, both comrades mulling over the question as though it was a private conversation between them. A sense in the lad’s gut told him that perhaps he made too direct a request from nowhere, but he remained calm. What could he expect if he never asked?

Cerelus was not an unreasonable man. In fact, out of everyone in the House, he was the most laid back about his profession. This was his retirement, he would claim, as he idly reclined to listen to the masculine rabble at the tavern each evening. His only goals in life were to have a good drink, fondle a pretty lady, and perhaps walk the City if the errand suited. Two of those goals were out of his control, thus Zevran assumed the bribe consisted of a fine beverage.

“A bottle of brandy,” his suspicions were confirmed.

So it was then that the lad was sent on his two-year journey to find the mythical bottle. Cerelus held to his word though, even offering to show him tips and tricks long before Zevran was expected to pay. And the agreement was to stay between them. After all, it served no one to share trade secrets with the entire House; else the whole of Dockside would have a hand in it!


	19. Part Three Chapter Five

Weeks passed and eventually Taliesen eased up on the cold shoulder. In truth, he could not stay angry with his student for long, and slowly casual chitchat resumed by the well. By mid-spring, all ill feelings were mended with the prospect of a new errand.

There was no wooden medallion to accompany the request though. Taliesen conceded, “This is a personal errand from the Guild Master.”

Zevran had long gaged that Taliesen and the Guild Master knew each other on a more private level. As the housemaster, he must have some higher duty to uphold, after all. He nodded, “What kind of errand?”

He smiled warmly, picking at the stonework on the well as he spoke, “We are off to the House of Stil. The Hounds are in need of corralling.”

The Hounds? Zevran pulled at the name in his mind until he could recall where he last heard of the House. Stil was a House from Tern that often gathered at the tavern alongside them. They were a surly bunch, and it was many months before any of the Salty Brood would bother to explain why.

“A member there and I need to have a conversation.” He said the last word with a bit of thought before continuing, “But that is rather ill advised with the entire pack at his back. So, you will serve as my distraction.”

Zevran pondered, “And how do you suppose I distract them?”

“Easy!” He exclaimed, clasping his hands with a smile, “You simply walk into their forum. Tell them you are looking for a lesson or some such, and if you really long for an effect, tell them I sent you.”

It seemed rather straightforward. Still, even Zevran, in all his inexperience, knew walking into a rival house’s forum without invitation was tantamount to trespassing. Despite the brotherly nature of the Guild, the Houses were not all so cordial with each other, viewing their members as potential contenders for the same fare. Tern, in particular, had a reputation for bitter turf wars.

As he approached the long wall to the back entry, nodding to the housemaster as they parted ways up the alley, a knot grew in his stomach. Stil was a House of Hounds. Zevran found the notion quite bemusing, figuring a flock some other bird of prey or a den of snakes a much better description for the division of the Guild that retained its deadliest members. Referring to them like a pack of dogs was derogatory, every Antivan knew it. 

But, perhaps it was also appropriate. After all, the Hounds were little more than a pack of dogs. From a tender age, homeless boys and orphans were taken off the street and into the care of these dens. And there, as rumor had it, they learned to survive. To the public, it was a way of containing the poor from a life of destitution on the streets. The City’s port, after all, amassed all manner of strays on her docks. Where Nevarra and Tevinter were home to indentured servitude and slavery, the people of Antiva were not so fond of such notions, at least not visibly. Every life had value; it was the Antivan way to put it to good use. 

In reality though, what the Merchant Princes were really building was an army. And if the Guild Masters were their generals, then the Hounds were their infantry. The men these boys grew into were single minded, loyal and above all, deadly. They were the silent watchers, the ground beneath the street. And should any of the Guild Masters become angry, the Hounds were the first they released.

Master Naheeme only once mentioned the Hounds. Called them as such. He never worked directly with them though, so Zevran guessed none such guests ever graced the villa steps. The young man gulped suddenly at the memory, and a cold realization flowed down his spine that had the old man not gone to the brothel deep in the heart of the City, had he not looked down his long, aged bridge and into little golden eyes, that a den like this could very well have become his home.

A wide wooden back gate was slightly ajar, and his only indication he was at the right place was a faded red flag hung to one side. On the banner were three long, white marks hugging each other like a wave. The day was bright. Zevran tentatively opened the gate and peeked into the forum. It was little different than his House forum; a low shaded patio surrounded a large space with a well in the center.

There was a lone man sitting by the well sharpening a knife. The image struck familiar to him as the lad rubbed a finger over the hilt of his own dagger for courage. The man looked up and stopped. The pair stared awkwardly for a few moments in silence.

“Oy, a nun visits the Chantry.”

Zevran nudged to his right, noticing a tall Shem leaning against the wall not far from him. He was a slim man, as most Hounds were. Slender and sly, they gifted the impression that they were always at attention, no matter how casual the advance. Perhaps it was the allusion of hunger that extended this reputation.

Zevran shrugged, gesturing politely around the forum, “A spiritual pilgrimage.”

The Shem remained where he was, allowing a chuckle to escape as he drawled, “I’ve seen you before.”

“Eh, I’m common enough,” he remarked. “Been a porter in Tern for near three years, I would say.”

“At the Tavern,” the Shem adjusted himself on the wall, wheedling something between his front teeth, “You’re a convert from Arnii.”

“A bit young to be a convert, yes?” The man at the well added as he purposefully raked the soapstone across his knife.

“Aye,” he nodded, “I bet the pups have seen more than he has.”

His statement was like a cue and Zevran looked up to the first floor windows to see a half dozen pair of youthful eyes watching from above with interest. All of their heads were shaved, their expressions the same like a row of siblings despite their apparent differences in parentage.

“We could give them some practice,” The Shem pondered, looking over to his comrade by the well, but then shook his head before returning to the intruder, “Likely nigh worth it, no?”

His friend acknowledged him, “That’s Taliesen’s favorite.”

“Oh I know,” when his eye contact was assured, the Shem smiled, “His ward, I hear.”

Zevran blinked. Taliesen was a known sword hand. He once explained that the Vintolli House, like the Guidain House, specialized in certain skills, and his father happened to be highly regarded. To have a recognized talent demanded respect, and it was possible that reason alone was why he was housemaster at all.

The Shem pushed himself off the wall, a sinister quality in his gate. He was casual in his attire, no protection other than a simple vest and tunic tucked into leather trousers. He appeared unarmed, but Zevran knew better. He stopped a little more than arms length from the lad, studying the smaller fellow before offering, “Perhaps you could show off what you’ve learned from your master.”

Was this not supposed to work the other way around? It was a lesson he was tasked to seek as a distraction for his brother. Yet this option seemed comparable enough as the lad tentatively acquiesced to the pair. Still, this was no sparring match Zevran walked into. As the other Shem lifted himself from the well, the curve of the blade he held glinted off the mid-day sun, a warning of how poorly this so-called lesson could play out.

Without warning, the pair was on him, one at his front and the other at his side. He expected the blade to come and neatly blocked the upward arc, but was kicked to the side by the other foe. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet in a crouched position, scanning the pair in their relaxed poses. It jarred the lad to see how coolly they regarded him, never glancing at each other before moving toward him in sync. Zevran remained where he was until the last safe moment, jabbing his dagger down onto the boot to his right while punching the knee to his left. He heard the blade drop, but realized too late that the boot he intended to stab shifted out of the way, the sole landing him hard in the face instead. Knocked back, it was all he could do to grab the better weapon and retreat to a safe distance again.

There was only one of the pair standing now, the other smoothly backing against the well again, cradling his knee gently. The Shem who first addressed him hummed appreciatively from above, “Interesting.”

There was the starting of an audience in the forum. Zevran could feel his cheek burn and the blood dip down his nose, but it did not stop him from concentrating on the collected man in front of him. He seemed to be waiting, unwilling to make the first move. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

He felt before he heard a sound behind him, and just as the lad turned to find a new challenger mounting an attack, a sharp shock hit his back. Skittering so that both men now faced him, Zevran viciously swung the blade back, narrowly missing the first Shem, and kicked as hard as he could at his chest. The effort shoved the man back enough so the lad could again defend himself against the downward arc of a sword. The clash of the metal was deafening as he deflected once and then a second and then third time before realizing he was being backed into a corner of the forum.

He was out numbered and out matched. All Zevran’s senses told him that his distraction was over and he needed to leave. The gate was now on the other side of him, and to chance it he would have to move between the men. Menacingly, he swung wide, causing the pair to lean back and giving him enough room to slide on the gravel and beeline to the reddened wooden gate. 

Another contender swooped in from the side in an attempt to block his exit, and Zevran raised his weapon enough to strike hard on the impending clash. It was not until he was nearly there that he realized the figure blocking the door was actually a boy, one of the children spying down on him from the window. He was Shem too, but no more than eight years of age, his small stature not yet grown into the clothing he was wearing or the stance he held as he evenly waited for the Daedric to slow his approach. Blue eyes and gaunt cheeks were pale in the sunlight, and a small grin played on the child as Zevran relaxed his grip on the blade.

The boy swung across his chest and a spray of sand from his hand flung straight into the Daedric’s face. Stunned, Zevran cried out, dropping his weapon in effort to cover his eyes, and then as the burning sensation sunk in, began wiping frantically to clear his vision. Defenseless, distracted, he was yanked to ground by unseen hands, his cheek ground into the gravel by a leather-covered knee, his flailing arms twisted painfully until he yielded, screaming for them to stop.

He could hear the Shem above him, his voice unruffled and deeper than he expected, “Taliesen did warn you, I hope. You would nigh have survived this place, I think.”

His could feel the surge of his heartbeat, the thuds becoming more rapid as the man adjusted his knee and flicked a small dagger over the tip of the lad’s ear. He spoke nonchalantly, “I wonder, what is so special about you. I mean, is it nigh odd for the House of Arnii to convert one without skill?”

There was nothing he could say. He was trapped.

“That was nigh his right to decide your fate.” There was knowledge in his words, the Shem’s hands now busy cutting away at his vest and shirt. Zevran’s vision was starting to return and he was widely scanning around with the one eye above the gravelwork, renewed reason to struggle free. He saw the boy sitting at his side, his head rotated sideways to see the Daedric’s face more clearly. Was it fear the child was looking for?

“Perhaps this will act as a reminder of who you really are, should our paths cross again.”

The pain was searing as the blade cut into his flesh. It felt like the brand, although there was no fire and the sting lasted much longer than the lead-tipped iron that touched his shoulder so long ago. A slow swipe crept the length of his back, followed by a second and then by a third. His entire left side felt laid open when the final mark punctured his side. Four marks. Three claws.

The knee released his chokehold and his arms were suddenly free. Gulping in air, the lad could barely make an audible noise the pain was so intense.

The warning was clear as the Shem took to cleaning his knife with the remnants of Zevran’s shirt, “I will give you a head start because I pity you. If I catch you here again, I promise you will nigh be so lucky.”

It took all his will to make it back to the assigned meeting spot Taliesen suggested, but there was no one there when he arrived. The lad considered waiting, but the each step was agony and he was leaving a crimson path for others to follow. In his shock, anger was seeping in to fill his already bruised ego and aching backside. The man spoke of conversations he was not privy to; a scene amongst the select few who had power over him. The housemaster must have known. Was it not Taliesen himself who echoed how fortunate his circumstances were?

It took so much longer to make it back to the House. Most of the Salty Brood was already at the tavern for early supper, so he was blessed to be alone. Creeping into the attic was nearly impossible as the skin parted and stretched. Shaking, the lad dug into his crate for cloth and rinet. Carnassi. Anything to calm the pain. The cuts deeply raked the length from his shoulder to the small of his back, and it was at that moment Zevran realized he lacked the skill to handle this kind of injury as well.

“Zev?” He heard the housemaster call anxiously from below. Taliesen was standing at the opening of the attic, no doubt following the trail.

He pulled himself across the floorboards to peer down from a corner. To Taliesen, his skin had gone icy pale with sweat, his light hair damp against his face shrouding a sense of distrust in his narrow, sharp eyes. Dried blood and dust covered his mouth and chin, and from below he gave the impression of a trapped animal. 

“Let me see it.”

“No!” Zevran jerked back.

“I need to see your injury,” he demanded lowly at first and then subtly lightened the tone, “I must know who to take you to.”

He was unsure if he could climb down. Tossing his tools to the ground below without care, the lad took a deep breath as he gingerly levered himself over the opening. The pressure on his left side was too great, though; his arm gave way before he was ready, causing him to fall with thud. His knee buckled in a newfound pain and the lad groaned, his forehead pressed against the rough wooden floor.

There was silence, and then hushed, the housemaster took his student by the shoulders to guide him down the stairs. Grabbing a thin cloak from his quarters, he flung it loosely around the Daedric and led them out the door into the busy evening street. They passed up narrow alleyways, urgency in their step, and Zevran realized he did not recognize where he was. Suddenly before a small courtyard, Taliesen knocked on the door, and a young woman answered within mere moments. She looked at Zevran, and he recognized her.

They were at the Courtesans. The woman leaned back in to speak to someone and then opened the door fully to usher both inside. They were in the kitchen but soon left for a long hallway to a set of stairs. Rounding the landing, they entered a large side room with an ornate lounge and on suite boudoir.

“Bring him over here,” Nell presented herself near the fire, her bosom on full display in a tight bodice as she motioned to Taliesen with concern, “Let me see him.”

He obeyed wordlessly and removed the cloak. Zevran’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as the woman stroked a gentle finger along his left side.

“Get Lani,” He heard her say. She touched his chin and turned him to face her. Nell had large, brown eyes that reminded him of quail feathers. Her lips were pursed into a grimace, pulling at the fine wrinkles around her mouth. She had an expression of pure worry, talking to the lad with consoling tones, “Come, you should lie down. Lani is an exceptional cleric. She will know what to do.”

Using the cloak as a cover, she smoothed out the duvet on the bed and had Zevran lay stomach down, his back exposed to the firelight. The softness of the feather mattress nearly pulled him into an immediate slumber, were it not for the muted conversation beyond. There were strong hints of anger coming from Taliesen’s voice, although he could not make out what he was saying.

He thought he closed his eyes for only a moment, but time passed differently. When Zevran opened them again, there was a woman wiping a wet cloth against his cheek, her dark locks pinned back loosely to avoid flowing over him. His clothing was removed and a light blanket covered him from the waist down. Light was struggling free against the red currents at the window, and he realized that it was the next day.

The woman paused, a smile dividing her long features, “You are awake.”

His throat felt dry and the lad attempted roll onto his side before she stopped him.

“Nigh, nigh,” she gently chided, her hands rotating his shoulders back against the duvet. Zevran’s cheek rested on a soft pillow, so he reached to grip it instead. Her smile intensified and she brought a cup of water to him, “You are looking better. I imagine a good sleep served as well as any healer, yes?”

He could hear boots on wood and another presence filled his peripheral vision. He knew who it was before the comment registered, “You are a heavenly seamstress, Lani.”

She hummed, “The marks are very deep, but nigh too deep. He should rest until the wounds have properly closed.”

Taliesen clucked softly, “They will make fine story when they are mended.”

A bitterness rose in his throat. Suddenly all of the previous day came rushing back to him, and the lad could not help but scowl back at the housemaster. Taliesen looked weary, a wry smile concealing any real concern behind his eyes.

“You did this on purpose,” Zevran pinned his words like needles.

His smile disappeared, and Zevran realized he was right. Perhaps there was never a conversation to be had with this hound Taliesen sought. Perhaps the ‘conversation’ all along was his display in the forum.

The housemaster nodded to Lani and took her place at the bedside. He spoke slowly, sincerely, “I nigh thought it would be like this.”

Zevran squinted fiercely, betrayal pecking at him, “Were you watching?”

“No!” Taliesen avowed, offended, “I had my errand to keep.”

The lad turned his head in disgust, no longer desiring to talk. His back was numb and cold. He wondered what Lani did to quell the pain so effectively.

There was a long silence between them before Taliesen spoke again, “Be angry with me if you like, but it nigh changes anything. You are still here.”

“Yes,” the scorn thick on the pillow, “and things could be far, far worse.”

The cloth landed by his head with a wet thump, and the lad was alone again.


	20. Part Three Chapter Six

Mercifully, he stayed at the Courtesans’ House for several days until Lani felt his wounds had sufficiently started to mend. Slowly, she removed the many, many lines of thread from his backside, dropping them into a bowl of water. Sinette came to his side and spent her time whispering sweet nothings into his freshly washed hair when the sting became too harsh with the tug of each thread. Between the two women, Zevran was lulled into a relaxed state considering the severity of his injury. A thick poultice was placed over each cut when she was finished, and he was wrapped in pale linen to keep the wounds from festering. Lani issued an order to return to her each day to dress it until she said otherwise. Such personalized attention was bizarre to the lad, and he found himself longing for it despite the pain he no doubt suffered from each visit. Sinette never failed to give him a lingering kiss on the way out the door.

The Hounds knew what they were doing. The Shem that cut him did so to open as much skin as possible without damaging much muscle. Within a fortnight, he could pick up a blade without wincing too terribly at the stretch of the tight scars. He spent much of his time practicing since his return to the House, refusing to leave the confines of the forum to run his normal errands. And Taliesen let him be that way, at least for a little while.

Their sparring would pick back up again; they both knew it. But something had changed in Zevran, and their candor with each other was off balance. The lad did not give a verbal response as the housemaster greeted him happily with the wooden sticks, tossing the younger man’s pair lithely. Taliesen was not one to be bruised by such a cold response though, choosing instead to get on with the task at hand.

They began their trained dance. The housemaster knew all of Zevran’s weaknesses by heart, and it was his job to test them every session until his student corrected his mistakes. But whether it was fear of being tapped on his injured side, or finally recognizing the problem in his stance, the lad moved faster than he normally did. The upper cut of the stick was unexpected, and Taliesen felt the harsh sting of a fist come crashing onto his cheek.

He fell to the ground, letting his stick fly away. Stars flashed before his eyes, and Taliesen peered up to see Zevran stalking way, his line of sight heatedly cast onto his housemaster.

Taliesen chuckled a little, wiping blood from his nose, “I see you are still angry at me.”

His student returned only a glare.

“Well, good. Stay angry at me,” he flashed a smirk as a way of congratulating him. “Let it help you the next time you are in need of it.”

Zevran’s eyes sparked suddenly, his grip loosening on the wood. It became clear then what this lesson was really about, and the notion made him even less happy. Dropping his tools deliberately, he nearly spat onto the dusty floor, submitting instead to simply walk away. It would be summer before the pair sparred again.

The outward fury would eventually subside, but the lad found it difficult to bring out his usual banter around the Salty Brood. The rest of group immediately heard of what happened, offering stories of their own encounters with the various dens across the City. The Hounds were not to be trifled with, even by another Crow.

“I’ll kill him if he touches me again,” The words were barely perceptible, but they were there and their intent was real.

Cerelus leaned back from the rabble at the table and observed his smaller brother. Zevran’s childish features were hardened, his teeth clenched. He held a practiced pose against the bench wall as he stared beyond their group to the table where Stil housemembers often congregated. The older Shem glanced over to several rough men smiling their way and then back at the Daedric lad. Subtly, he prodded him.

“Here, having something stronger,” Cerelus pushed over a flask in an attempt to redirect the younger’s attention. “You have the rest of your life to harbor such hatred. You are too young to savor it now.”

The summer heat was again on the City too early. It seemed every year was getting warmer sooner than expected, and the House eagerly cast its shutters out to the bay’s salty breeze. 

Zevran was called to Taliesen’s quarters. He did everything in his power to avoid the Shem now, but he still had to acquiesce to the demands of the House. He stood in the doorway watching as the housemaster labored over a pile of letters; no doubt they were the bids for the following season.

“Come over here and sit,” Taliesen was quiet. He was always quiet when he wrote.

Obeying, Zevran sighed and waited for whatever he was called here for. A long lingering moment passed, and peeking toward the makeshift desk, he could not help but read the delicate scrawl on the parchment.

“Hold,” came the warning, but it was too late. Zevran read the first and the second of the letters he managed to nab. A sneer formed on his delicate chin, and he let out a snort. Taliesen frowned, “What.”

He motioned to the letter, “The bid is too low.”

“Feh, and you know of such how?”

“Ned, at the tavern nigh two days ago, bragged at how he took this same kind of errand from the Vancor for a far better rate.” Zevran pointed at the parchment, surprised by the lack of reaction from his housemaster. He pulled at another letter on the table, “And this! You need at least Velnas and Borne to accomplish such a task, yet you offer to pay only one, less expenses.”

Taliesen, snatched the paper back and demanded, “You talk like you know about negotiating.”

“I am Antivan! We all know negotiation!” He countered, “It is you who seem to lack its favor.”

The insult sunk deep, and the housemaster fumed over the stack before him, “You think this is simple? I have thirty men in my care. Thirty men who require to be fed, housed, maintained, and worked. You tell me what I should do!”

“Pay them what they’re due,” He said flatly.

“Pay them what they’re due?” He questioned, nearly aghast at lad’s audacity, “I have to compete against near fifteen Houses under Gynn alone!”

“So less is more?”

“It catches the errand!”

“It catches few errands if you truly believe your men are worth less!”

The housemaster paused. One of the first lessons the Master instilled in the lad at a young age was that an Antivan always paid what they thought the item was worth. That was the art of negotiation – neither party necessarily believed the worth of the purchase was the same. Cheap fair likely meant cheap goods, and there was a fine line between a good deal and a poor choice.

“Your men are hungry and bored,” Zevran spoke in an authoritative way the housemaster never met from him before. It made his youthfulness all the more surreal, “If you truly believe their value so little, then you should nigh expect such in return, no?”

Zevran could tell Taliesen wanted to argue, but chose to study the letter in his hand again. What the lad said was true, although he would be at a loss now to explain why he felt the need to express it. Perhaps it was because he was bored. And angry. And hungry. Months of observation of the Salty Brood suggested he was not alone, and if the terms of their conditions could be improved by better management, who was he to stay silent.

The housemaster handed him the letter, scrutiny edging his response, “And what of this? What would you pay for it?”

Zevran glanced at the paper, reading the contents quickly. It was a mark from the Vancor on a hound. The man abandoned his post and disappeared into the woodlands near Rivaine. Such a crime was punishable by death, or so it was said. The fact the mark was a hound made it worse and called for a harsher response. To be an example for others who thought they could so easily sidestep the system.

“Eighty Antivan, minimum.”

Taliesen’s eyes shot open, “That’s near twice what I bid!”

“Yes, eighty Antivan,” He answered. “One third to the Vancor, the rest split between the Guild, the House and the one called to carry it. Seventeen for both House and brother instead of eight. Think about what we could do with such coffers! We could hire our cook again!”

“And if we nigh get the errand?” He questioned heatedly.

“Then you will neh know,” He understood by now how it worked. Once the bids were entered, no one outside the confines of the sceptered walls was privy to the decision. Zevran finished almost casually, “The poor man neh receives.”

Taliesen’s hand twitched over the parchment, his expression unsure. But the insistence of his student and conviction in his words stirred him to set his hand to the letter. Slowly, the number formed and he allowed the ink to dry, looking toward his friend and relaxing when the Daedric’s face finally eased into a satisfied nod.

The Vantenii came and went, and another meeting with all of the brethren of House Arnii was to be had. Surprisingly, the satchel was full, fuller than it had been the previous winter, and Taliesen took to his rehearsed monologue with renewed vigor before supplying the tokens. Zevran watched from his corner of the fire pit half hoping something might be in the plush purse for him.

Alas, it was not to be his day.

Sitting in the back forum the following week, the lad had taken to a lock box Cerelus gave him to practice with a novice set of tools. The metal picks were poor and thoroughly weathered before falling into his nimble hands. After a dozen or so attempts, he placed the box on the ground, tossing the tools to the side, and rubbed his temples in frustration. He could feel the housemaster approach, causing him to rub his temples harder.

“Here.”

Zevran looked up to an outstretched hand presenting a stained, wooden box. He shifted up to see Taliesen’s expression, expectant and patient. He was chewing on his favorite grass.

“What is it?”

“Open it.” He motioned with his hand.

He took the box cautiously, a silence hanging between them. Popping the lid off, Zevran’s eyes widened.

“This stays between us,” the housemaster advised as he turned back to the house. The lad could not help the confused gesture as he plucked out the quill above a thick stack of paper accompanying a bottle of ink. The items were used, but clean and artfully prepared in the antique container. Was this a way to thank him or ask forgiveness? Perhaps it was Taliesen’s subtle manner of asking the lad to stop poaching his supply. In any case, he dared not inquire, and Zevran quietly tucked the items behind his back against the wall for the crate later.


	21. Part Three Chapter Seven

With the early summer came the monsoon. Blessedly, Zevran’s boredom was alleviated by several simple errands across the City. They were lowly tasks that no one else in the House really wanted to take on, but it was better than nothing and near effortless for him to follow through. In fact, they were made for someone of his ilk. He was tasked first to spy on a Merchant household and return with the required information, which was simple enough because he knew the layout of most homes in the district, having escorted the Master over the years. The latter errand required him to test his lockpicking skills, still clumsy and immature from his early efforts with the lockbox in the forum. A certain degree of stealth was also required, which came more naturally as his lithe form could easily trace the rooftops at night, easing himself down onto a terrace to skulk into an unguarded window. Memories of his childhood crept back of the evenings he spent on the rooftop terrace at the villa, climbing the vines, pretending they were great trees of the Daelish Wood. For the briefest moment, the stolen space felt like home.

Taliesen was impressed by the speediness of his student’s results, deciding to reserve this sort of errand to him again should the opportunity come up. Zevran was small and quiet when not the center of attention at the tavern. The lad had a way with telling a tale that even the Salty Brood could not ignore. Taliesen guessed it must have been from all the books he read from his life before landing in House Arnii. What was important was that the Daedric appeared unassuming, a clear advantage among his brethren, even Ren. Certainly, if trained properly, he would make a great assassin. The housemaster went as far to mention such in one of their sparring sessions, musing that he should not let youthful eagerness get in the way of a good mark, whether it was an object or person. Zevran’s failing was that he had a tendency, perhaps because his cleverness, of getting ahead of himself, and that was where he made errors. And if the older Shem could make this assessment in the forum, he was likely to repeat it on the road.

One day, Taliesen chose to take Zevran with him to the Guild Master. He needed to report on the result of an errand and thought this would be a good opportunity for the young man to observe the inner workings of his occupation. 

Zevran followed civilly, unsure why he was involved at all. Gynn de Payne made him feel uneasy, like a hawk surveying its prey before diving in for the kill. He held too much control that the lad had little ability to leverage, and the thought made his every move and statement nervous. Perhaps that was the way of the Guild and its Masters. The anxious reactions by their lessers elicited a sense of entitlement. That thought alone brought forth a resentment the young Daedric did not know he possessed.

They would sit and talk casually at first before getting to business, the lad ignored in the background. Surprised he was not banished entirely, Zevran leaned on one of the stone columns and watched the City below. The rainy season was upon them, and from this vantage he could see a huge storm building off the coast, ready to sweep into the bay with a wall of fishy mist.

“So you think sending him would be better.”

“Naivety is what she adores, no?” Taliesen mused, “Who else in the Guild could manage such with sincerity?”

Gynn chuckled, “And are you willing to lose your protégé if he fails?”

Zevran straightened and turned to the pair. Taliesen held a confident smile, amused by such a question. He conceded, “It is risk. But all great things come with risk, yes?”

The guild master glanced to the lad and then returned to the housemaster. Taking a breath, he leaned back in his chair, “I will ponder it. We are done.”

The walk back was in silence. The sun was setting behind them and the downward gradient transitioned from the pristine plaster and cobble into a dingy, sootier version. By the time the pair made it to the tavern, Zevran could no longer hold his curiosity.

“What was that about?”

Taliesen stopped himself from opening the door and pulled Zevran by the shoulder into an adjoining alley. He spoke in a low tone, but was not harsh to the lad, “Neh discuss such in the open. I will tell you later, if the errand is ours.”

His answer would come to him two days later during a break in the back forum. Both were out of breath, and the build up of the humidity felt like they were swimming in their own sweat. The housemaster removed his tunic and hung himself over the side of well in effort to take in any breeze. The lad managed to knock him off his feet twice that day.

“I think you might be ready,” he muttered into the well.

Zevran sought shade instead and sat against the far wall. The sentence could barely be heard, but he caught it, “Ready for what?”

After a moment, the Shem pulled himself from the stonework and began retrieving the bucket with water. He returned to the shade and offered a cup before answering, “For your first real test.”

Zevran’s gut jumped at the response, but Taliesen was already beyond the significance of the statement and pushed on with a proud smile, “Gynn gave us the errand.”

“I suppose this is mark,” He suggested.

“Aye,” he nodded through his cup. The water felt like ice down his throat. The housemaster elaborated, “A very important mark on a magister.”

A mage? Zevran never met a mage before, at least not knowingly. Antiva was seemingly devoid of them despite the ubiquitous nature of magic throughout Thedas. Instead, mages took the Quintas Road on to Tevinter, where they could learn their trade in the open, away from the confining hands of the Chantry. He once heard there was a treaty between the Imperium and Antiva, although he was unsure how his kingdom benefited from such favors.

“We are going to the Imperium then?”

“No, no!” Taliesen waved his free hand, “She is in Antiva, and we must catch her before she flees our borders.”

“A woman!” Zevran balked. It was one thing to mark a man, another entirely to kill a woman.

The housemaster nodded again, formulating a plan behind the glint in his blue eyes, “We are going to intercept her, and you are going to fool her into believing nothing is untoward before taking her down.”

“Why?” He demanded more than asked.

Taliesen snapped his mouth shut in effort to keep from chastising him. The young Daedric man always asked why as though it had any relevance to the task at hand. The Shem smiled, “Because, my dear friend, she has angered the wrong person. That is all you need to know, yes?”

The housemaster seemed more than happy with the arrangement, and the lad realized he had little choice than shadow him. The next day, they were prepared and followed the northwesterly path out of the City. The plains were cooler than the coast and both men relished in the strong breeze sweeping the fields. Goat herders ushered their flocks ever onward like nomadic tribes save small villages lining the Quintas Road. Zevran remembered this place, a sense of dread encasing him as they approached and then passed the outskirts of the Daelish Wood.

Night was on them when the pair arrived at a junction in the road. They travelled for a month by then, taking rest in the wilderness most of the time and only wondering into a village to barter for supplies. Zevran was left behind to watch their belongings after the second attempt with the townsfolk failed; it was a distinct parallel to his traverse up the plains nearly ten years prior. How did any Daedric or Daelish survive up here, he wondered. Perhaps that was what drove them into the Wood in the first place.

They approached a berm overlooking the offshoot headed due north from the main road. Far ahead, they could see a dim lantern hooked to a cart.

“That must be it,” Taliesen murmured, concentrated on the distant object.

“Surely she is nigh alone,” Zevran said skeptically.

“She may be, I’d nigh doubt,” He turned and emphasized. “You need to tread carefully now, lest she deceives you. Mages are odd creatures.”

“Me – you mean I’m alone?” His eyes widened in the dark. Flashes back to the tiny town of Banch pushed to the front of his mind.

Taliesen nodded, “I am simply here to ensure you finish what you start.”

Zevran hesitated but queried anyway, “and if I nigh finish?”

There was a pause. The lad could make out the housemaster’s terse expression even in the evening light; he was mulling over his response. His voice sounded strange, almost remorseful in its seriousness, “If you nigh finish, you nigh return, my friend.”

So this was the test he spoke of. What use was the lad if he could not follow through? The Crows were not known thieves after all, despite the wide variety of roles they actually played in the City. He felt the solid pat on his back above the impression marking House Arnii, Taliesen’s advice ringing clear.

“If you are caught, you nigh can take what she says as truth. I hear she is a master of coercion, and she will use anything to spare her life, including yours. Finish this quickly, and meet me at the Tundles in Sphene.”

Zevran acknowledged his words, before jerking up to his housemaster’s trailing shadow, “Wait! What’s her name?”

The dark figure lingered, “Lady Blaine of the Acundum.”

He was alone. The crickets were chirping loudly, and the lad remained in his spot observing the surroundings before him for what felt like hours. The road dissected a field to the left and a dark thicket to the right. The fields provided the foreground to foothills of grand mountains beyond. The border of Tevinter was within reach.

Slowly he picked himself up, walking casually along the cobbled road toward the dim distant light. The lantern was like a signal and it struck him odd. Why would a woman travel alone? Surely she must know she is marked. Taliesen said she was running to the Imperium presumably where the Crows held less power, or desire, to catch her. Perhaps it was a trap, and the notion forced the lad to clutch his dagger for resolve. He was not prepared to have a fight with guards, should he find any.

The cart was simple and round. The exterior reminded Zevran of the gypsy carts in Tern. Many roaming tribes migrated from Rivaine and found temporary status in Dockside during the spring before they continued their trek to the Free Marches. It was a biannual migration, and the same tribes found themselves back in Tern the following fall. The wood paint was dark and extravagant, mixing purple, deep reds and greens from the little light shown to him. The lad approached the lantern, and very carefully lifted himself over the opening to blow the fire out.

The darkness encasing him, Zevran listened closely for any signed of movement. There were two openings on the cart, one on the side and other to the front where a horse was loaded, calmly chewing straw dropped for it. In either case, he could not imagine a scenario where he could sneak up on someone inside.

He heard a whisper and stopped dead in his tracks. Peering around, he could not see anyone from the dimness of the woodlands. The lad slunk into the shadow of the wagon and waited. Again a whisper reached his ears as though the voice was uttered right next to him, and he startled enough to lurch out of place.

The third whisper called from within his head, unmistakably a woman’s voice, “Come into the light, my love.”

He stood straight and peeked around the side of the wagon. The side facing the fields was held open, and from the opening he could make out the petite profile of a woman staring straight ahead.

“Come into the light, my love.”

She looked like a ghost to him. Her alabaster skin glowed in the moonlight. Dark stray locks of hair poured down her bare shoulders. She appeared ethereal, calm.

The woman’s face turned to him eerily and for moment Zevran thought to run. But then she smiled; a smile so sweet he felt compelled to stay. Her voice was deeper than in his head, “Come into the light, my love. I nigh bite.”

He edged forward, still close to the side of the cart. By the time he reached the opening, she turned more fully to him. Her robes were loose, opened in the front, her stomach and chest exposed to the moonlight. She studied him from her height in the wagon, her finger running a line along the edge of his face. The touch removed any fright he may have had; any thought for that matter.

“You are lonely and trapped,” She observed, leaning down to cup his chin. The contact was almost too much to the lad, but as he attempted to pull back, she pulled him forward into a kiss. Her taste was saccharine, the lingering scent of honey stronger than any mead Cerelus pushed onto him in the past. She crooned into his ear, soft lips stroking onto the lyre of his heart, “I can help you escape this life forced upon you.”

She was offering him a way out. In the moment, something inside wanted to leap at it, believe it in all the earnestness her voice conjured. Zevran pulled back to face her, a mix of insecurity, pain, hesitance hovering over his amber eyes like a halo.

“Come with me,” she cooed, pulling farther back into wagon. There was light inside beyond a curtain. He could see the corner of a bedroll and furs from the breaks in the heavy cloth. She beckoned him, tugging on his vest, inviting him inside.

What was he to do? He followed her into the hidden alcove. As the lantern light flushed him, her hand still guiding him by his shirt, the lad felt himself succumb to her touch. Her kiss deepened, her thoughts loud in his head, willing him to believe a better life awaited him. He longed to please her, to wrap his arms around her. It was not until his hand brushed against the dagger that Zevran was reminded why he was really here.

His eyes shot open, the blade already at her throat before he could stop it. In that moment the spell was broken, and looking around, clarity returned with a quickened heartbeat.

“Please!”

He glanced back to down the woman in his arms. She was as beautiful in the golden glow as the moonlight outside, her coal eyes now wide with apprehension. He studied them, and an unsettling awareness washed over him that the fear he saw was the same as the fear driving him. How could he kill this woman? What was she to him?

“Please!” She repeated, “Please let me go!”

“Your life or mine,” the words came out before he could control them. Perplexed, he adjusted the dagger so that it did not pierce so closely, “Why was I sent to hunt you?”

Her trembling form calmed a little, “I am a simple mage making my way home.”

Zevran shook his head and said, “I know you are lying. Tell me the truth.”

“I have information,” She whispered candidly, “I should nigh have.”

“What kind of information?”

“The kind a prince would kill for,” she swallowed and smiled meekly. “Please. I see- I know you nigh wish this. It nigh has to end this way.”

She was right. It did not have to end with her death. He was on the border. He could run and be deep into the Imperium by morning. He stilled his dagger, now shaking slightly in his grip, and moved it to the side of the bedroll. The woman closed her eyes and visibly relaxed, risking her hand on his cheek.

“You could come with me,” she offered, her gaze again resting on him, “I know where you can remain hidden. Stay with me.”

Somewhere inside him, Zevran knew this too was a lie, but the feeling of someone so close, the warmth, and the tender touch again beckoned him to relinquish his doubts and fall unto her will. He leaned in to kiss her, thoughts of Sinette looming in the back of his mind. Just to be caressed brought with it a sense of comfort he never realized he missed. He longed for it, yearned for it. He needed it.

The night passed into a cool morning, the calls of passion settled onto the dew of the surrounding field. Zevran fell asleep entangled in his lover. His slumber was deep and restful pressed against soft skin, his face buried into a mass of dark hair next to him. When he peeked open an eye, it surprised him to find her gone. Panic immediately surged at the realization of what he had done. Taliesen was waiting. He had to finish this.

He jerked to move but found himself unable. Peering up, the lad realized only then that he was tied to the back wall of the cart. Angry, he struggled against the hardened rope pulling at his wrists futilely. He was in trouble.

“Innocence is delicious.”

Zevran stilled himself and turned to the woman. She was dressed, her dark robes now shrouding her delicate curves, and her hair was pulled back into a loose braid. She was still ever striking, but with an added hint of malice in her face.

She grinned and observed his naked form against the wall. Clearly amused, “If I had known the ropes would work so well, I would have used them on you last night.”

There was nothing he could say, but he tried anyway, “You could let me go.”

“Alas, I nigh can,” Her voice dripped with pity as she crawled over to him, running her finger elegantly along his brow. “I am sad though, you must believe me. Such a beautiful thing you are. The Ashunii would have surely taken you.”

The Shem pulled away from him then, tracing her hand along the wood until she was at the opening. Facing him, her fingers tapped against the curtain and a fire lit within her. Zevran’s eyes widened as he suddenly was roused with a new reason to flee.

“We all do what we must to survive.”

His task forgotten, the only thing he could focus on was removing his restraints. In a show of strength, he jerked as hard as he could from the wall, causing the wagon to rock suddenly. He tried again, holding himself up by the weight on his arms, and yanked. Pain shot through his forearms but was yet forgotten by the heat to his side. On the third try, he fell to the floor in a sudden drop. Leaning up, he could see the opening, now enveloped in flames.

He grabbed a fur beneath him and covered himself as he stumbled out of the wagon and onto the hard, stone path. Groaning he rolled over to face the sunny sky, the crackling of the burning wood in his peripheral view. It was many minutes again before he lifted his head to peer down onto his bounds hands when he finally noticed the woman lying still on the ground beside him.

She must have fallen out of the cart awkwardly when Zevran yanked hard on the wall. Her face was stiff with shock, her neck careened back harshly, and he realized suddenly that she was dead. The lad leveraged himself up onto his side to examine her more closely. A knot in his stomach formed, not at the sight of death, rather how close he came to it.

Eventually he righted himself. The bindings were held together unnaturally, but over time the effect weakened and he was able to chew through the rope. Zevran admonished himself. His clothing burned in the cart along with anything else to protect his pride on the long walk back to Sphene. The horse was detached and let loose in the field beyond. Again he wondered if he should head toward the foothills before him. How was he going to explain this to Taliesen?

More importantly, how was he going to prove to Taliesen he finished the errand? Carefully, he searched the mage for anything he could use. Pulling out the small dagger she carried on her hip, he cut a lock of hair and wrapped it in a strip of her robe.

The deed may have been an accident, but it was still done and no one had the need to know how. Zevran was reverent enough to straighten her out next to the wreckage of her wagon, propriety intact, and then with fur in hand, crept along the road in search of something, anything he could use for clothing. The farm not far after the split in the main path provided the perfect opportunity. Bed linen hung on a line would suffice.

By the time Zevran returned to Sphene, Taliesen was already impatient. Night descended when his colleague saw the state of his student, and a curious candor emerged.

“You need a drink, I think.” 

“It is a long tale,” the lad grimaced, now the center of attention in the middle of the tavern. “I need my things.”

The housemaster laughed heartily, ushering the younger up the steps, “You are going to be legend, my friend!”


	22. Part Three Chapter Eight

Indeed. The story of the Daedric lad sent out to mark a mage only to return in his intimates made the circuit in Dockside upon their arrival. The errand was a rite of passage, and it apparently the lad made the most of it in the eyes of the Salty Brood. It turned out Lady Blaine was a well-known sorceress who used her wiles to trick her suitors into an early death. There had been many attempts on her life in Antiva, and all of them failed as she saw them coming. Zevran was tightlipped about the fact that he was the same as all the others, instead laughing about the circumstances of watching his modesty go up in flames.

Not everyone was so eager to congratulate him on such a famous mark. The housemaster of Stil was intrigued enough, but still carried a condescending tone as he leaned over the table, “You seem to carry Andraste’s luck.”

Zevran stiffened in his seat, his smile faltering slightly. Ignacio, his name was. The lad learned the Shem was well known in his own right, but for much more brutal reasons. He was from Tern, grew up on its streets, earned his way up the food chain of the den he called his home. To him, Zevran earned nothing to gain such recognition. His narrow russet eyes stared the Daedric down in a sort of show of dominance, only to be interrupted by one of the Salty Brood at the table.

“And praise yet for the Andraste lass!” Valnas quipped, “Give him a stein, and he’ll turn it to gold, I imagine.”

“Luck rarely refills,” A wicked smirk flashed across his long face.

Just then, the flash of a blade swiped at the lad, and the entire table was instantly standing, weapons drawn, shouts permeating where casual banter and laughter filled the air before. Ignacio chuckled with his hands raised in nonchalant manner as he backed away. The Shem at his side sheathed his dagger with same consoling gesture, smiles playing on both their faces. Zevran felt his cheek where the blade came closest and then pulled back his hand. His blood began to boil.

As quick as the blade that attacked him, the lad was across the table and at Ignacio. An arm reached out at the final moment and latched onto him as he closed the distance. He was being held back.

“He cut me!” The rage was blinding.

He heard Ren’s voice in his ear, “Nigh is this the place! Still yourself.”

As the pair was pulling away, or perhaps he was being pulled out of the building, he shouted after them, “I’ll kill you!”

The Daelish roommate pushed him against a shadowed wall of the tavern, Cerelus close behind. His tone was flat, concerned, “Calm yourself.”

Zevran shoved him away with a sincere desire to take his anger out on his brother instead, “What do you care, ah!”

“I know how these things are, friend.”

“Oh?” He jeered, wrinkles forming on his bridge as his eyes narrowed viciously at Ren, “Is that how you earned your marks then?”

The lad slapped a warding hand away and pushed off the wall to stalk back to the House. Anger seethed, and Zevran checked his burning cheek again. The cut was only a knick, but it felt like the winding swipes down his back that still ached so many months later. How badly he wanted to remove the smile from that housemaster’s face. Vengeance, bitterness was consuming him. He needed to show them he was not to be messed with. Not now. Not ever.

Fall and winter were long seasons in the City. The Merchant districts opened up with many festivals in the cool, dry evenings, and the steps along the Golden Mile became a carnival. Much of the House was gone this time of year, either on errands, or partaking in the myriad of games both lurid and dangerous spilling into the upper end of the docks.

Cerelus often tugged Zevran along to the betting rings. He used his Golden Boy’s keen eyes among the roosters to place the best bet. The lad liked to pick the runts, noting the smallest birds also tended to be fiercest because they had to fight longer and harder to survive. Any winnings they split evenly.

The Courtesans were on full display as well. The streets were flooded with women, a rare sight in the City. Mountains of fine silk and lace graced the cobbles from the pristine terraces of the Steps to the less maintained paths of Tern. Travelling in groups, they waved pleasantly at the catcalls from the sidelines of their parade, relishing the attention afforded to them.

The Chantry seemed to be the only institution not involved in the revelry. The steady hum over the City sounded dissonant against the cheers that drowned it. The festival was the cardinal symbol gluttony, a deadly sin among the righteous.

With the festival came an overabundance of fruit in the streets. The rigid, pimpled skin housed a soft, juicy tissue and the object was used as a reward for games, given as gifts, and occasionally proved a neat trick. It was a trick Zevran planned. He held the carroty produce the size of his fist firmly as he poked a hole at the top. With a hollow stick, he siphoned a clear liquid and let the droplets fall into the opening, careful to seal the puncture again by rubbing the end. He made several of these and wrapped them in a linen pack when he was finished. 

He smiled to himself, but could not help ponder if this was a mistake. Casually, he wondered down to the tavern where he knew the Salty Brood would gather later. Slowly he approached the table he knew Stil members congregated and waited. His expression became stoic when he spotted the first one.

“Oy, the nun should be with his kind, no?”

“Oh, but the Chantry gives devotion to the mere pilgrim.”

The hound leaned on the table, musing over his response. Zevran cut him off, “We should get to know one another on better terms, yes? A gift.”

The grin from Daedric lad was innocent enough, which irritated the Shem that much more. He lifted his chin, his hand on the linen pack, “Leave it then and scurry.”

He acquiesced, giving a demure nod as he left to find Cerelus at the betting ring. He wanted to know if another runt would win its survival.

The following day, there was a hush over the tavern. And uneasy silence really as men suspiciously whispered to one another from their corners of the establishment.

Cerelus confirmed, “Someone poisoned the House of Stil. Three are dead.”

“That’s terrible,” Zevran looked serious, glancing back to Ren sitting against the wall. The Daelish man appeared uncomfortable, eying his space around them. The lad returned to the older Shem, “Do they know who?”

“No, it was in the fruit. They could have found it anywhere,” he disparaged, “Be careful what you pick up.”

“They upset someone,” Cregin suggested.

“I’m sure they did,” Cerelus replied, “A rather tasteless way to end it, if such is the case.”

Ren’s voice picked up, “I fear for the fellow when they discover him.”

Low snickers erupted within their circle; the only one not laughing was Zevran, content to think in silence.

Taliesen was still away on an errand of his own, and Zevran had to find other things to do with his time. He washed his clothes in the back forum and sat quietly. He did something terrible, but the vindication he felt softened the guilt on his heart. He made a promise and kept it, whether that registered to the ones that threatened him, it no longer mattered.

“Did you do it?”

Brought out of thought, the lad looked up into a mop of raven hair. Ren peered down from his standing position, his thin profile darkening the space around him.

“Do what?”

Ren furrowed brow and leaned over, “Did you kill them?”

Zevran’s expression did not change, and as he shifted himself against the wall he wondered aloud, “What would you do with such information if I told you the truth?”

There was a long moment of silence between them. Both were unmoving, a slow sense of apprehension emerging on his roommate’s face.

“Mark me as I say this, Zevran. They will get you,” Ren spoke softly, seriously. Every word that fell from his thin lips was a warning, singing for him to stop and think, “Whether they hunt you or catch you in a mistake, they will get you. And when they do, you will fall.”

Pride and stubbornness was building in his mind. He was tired of treading so carefully on a path laid for him. He never asked to be here. The skills he so tenderly fostered from the will of another he must now keep hidden for no real reason; instead to behave in a manner they thought he was worthy to perform. The houses he associated with held ultimate power over whether he lived or died. How he lived and how he died. This was no life. Not for him.

“And would that make you happy, Ren?” He felt the menacing tone ring out into the forum, “To watch me fall?”

The Daelish man stood straight and backed away. He was alone again.


	23. Part Four Chapter One

“Have you ever heard of the Ashunii?”

The query caught the young man’s attention, and he ceased his perusal of the ornate vase near the window to face his audience. The Shem before him reclined on an extravagant chase, sipping on a glass of fine brandy. He was a handsome man; refined, angular features and dark skin spoke that he was a northerner. His black hair curled over his bare shoulder as wantonly as the smile that met the gaze of his guest. Chestnut eyes were fixed upon the younger man before him, and he took in the sight like he might admire an elegant statue.

“The Ashunii,” he continued. “Some say they are the most powerful men in Thedas.”

The Daedric remained still against the backdrop of the open terrace. The Rivaini evening began its ascent hours before, heralded by the full moon over their private bay. The younger man was dressed in fine silks, his slim form neatly held beneath soft layers of green and brown. The straw-colored hair that hung straight at his shoulders only highlighted the hollow of his cheeks as he chose this moment to lift a crooked smile.

The Shem morphed into a grin, “As the Imperium rose to power, it was Andraste’s Charm that carried their favor. Men of great beauty and danger, able to fell even the greatest of magisters with neh the need of lyrium, for the power of their voice was enough.”

He spoke the truth, what little his guest knew of the tale – the infamous Golden Boys of Tevinter. And indeed they were the epitome of Andraste’s grace. They were neither soldiers of war nor merchants of any voracity. Like courtesans, they simply kept the company of the powerful, and along with such company came an influence all their own. All of them were male. And nearly all were Daedric. It was ironic that such a power was given so freely after the fall of Arlethan and the epic tales of their Exalted March, let alone their perpetual enslavement thereafter, or so Zevran thought.

The Daedric quirked a brow before inquiring, “Have you ever met one?”

The grinned widened as the man sat up and beckoned him forth. Like the fabled icon, Zevran was there to keep this particular man company, as was requested of him. The Shem was a merchant prince; a well-known one who held the coastal routes to the northern lands on a tight leash. He carried favor with the City hierarchy up until he chose to take more of the prize than was deemed fit. He would assert himself into the Royal Court of Antiva, a frowned upon venture by many in the Guild, for it meant less control over the nobility that ran their kingdom.

The Crow’s involvement was not one of inquiry, however. He crossed the landing fluidly and seated himself across from his host, a warm smile collecting itself under the golden pools of his eyes as he reached for a glass already prepared for him.

“Surgen has offered me a fine gift. If it is but an evening, I must take it.”

Zevran knew relatively little Arcanum from his time with the Master other than the names of various tonics and their ingredients that he was required to translate into Orlesian. Presently, he was thankful for what little he had to serve him now, “The moment is a cherished gift often left grieving.”

The clink of their crystal goblets echoed into the room as they savored the silence with the smokiness of their brandy.

The casual discourse would last into the night, filled by nothing and followed by another conversation of sorts, one of subtler tones and headier substance. The dance was one the young man saw coming, hoping he was prepared for it. Yet, the ache was familiar to him as he lay beside his mark, watching the merchant prince slumber peacefully in the moonlight. Slowly, Zevran drew forth a needle from within the pin of his braid and stuck it into the muscle of the man’s neck. The pin-prink was but a moment that lingered like a lifetime as he observed the rise and fall of the man’s chest relax in pace until it stopped all together, and he knew his time here was finished. Something akin to pain washed over him as he cupped his brief lover’s cheek, eying the earring he wore. The pair would suffice for his errand – one for his report and the other as a reminder of what he lost.

“Forgive me.”

Late spring was upon Rialto Bay. Zevran could trace a line of ships off in the distance, likely carrying trade from the North along the coast to safe harbor. Flower pollen was caught up in the wispy breeze that followed the longshore current south. He could have taken one of the ships back, but felt the week or so of travel would be better to reacquaint himself with his country. Four months had passed since he last saw his home. Even from this distance, he could just glimpse the Steps and the expanse of green amongst the sandy, dry foreground of the coastal desert. 

He deliberately chose to stay away from the villages, instead opting to catch what he could and sleep beneath the stars. He was hoping the isolation might help shake the emptiness quietly draping him. His mind kept wandering back up the coast and to the empty bottle of poison left on the bedside table. Was it the deceit that bothered him or the sinister role he played to achieve his endeavors, the young man could not tell. He fumbled with the glass jar in his vest, pulling it out to peer at it under the moonlight. The liquid was thick and clear, likely a venom. When coated on an object, it would not wash off, yet such a small amount was enough to easily kill on contact. He was instructed to leave the poison, but Zevran could not bring himself to obey. Along with the earring, this was his real reward.

The smell of flowers turned to fish and then to mixed brine as Zevran took the narrow path from the north gate along Dockside. First he would stop by the Nevarrans to check up on the local gossip and replenish his supplies. Then he would return to the House to organize his things and report to the housemaster.

Izeek squealed at the sight of the Daedric man, ushering him over for a slap on the shoulder and brief hug, “You have returned! Many days I have prayed for you, my friend.”

Zevran could not help the smile that bloomed on his high cheeks. The brothers were always a warm sight, no matter his mood. He laughed in mock horror, “Surely you nigh think I am so easily vanquished!”

“Neh allow such rumors to flow, but Andraste should shower many offerings on you instead!”

“I have something to sell.” He opened the satchel noncommittally and tugged out a small golden vase as he spoke, “I found this and thought you could do something with it.”

Nabul was instantly over his younger brother’s shoulder, inspecting the item. The container was the length of his forearm with a wide base fashioned like a cup that narrowed into the neck. It was heavy, and shrewdly, the older brother assessed with a nod, “This is made of brass and gold. The carvings are from Tevinter, likely Minrathus – good craftsmanship. Where did you find this?”

Zevran smiled, “Found it drifting in Rivaine.”

Drifting had its meaning in the City that one should not question the origin of such things. The brothers shrugged and Nabul offered a price, “I know someone who will take this to Val Royeaux. I’ll give you fifty Antivan for it.”

A fine price, he figured. They chatted a while longer, and then Zevran accepted his goods and gold in kindness, promising to return once he had a day or two of rest.

The House smelled as he remembered it – stale hay, sweat and leather. Climbing into his loft, he hoisted the satchel up afterward and took stock in his private corner. The space was left untouched much like Ren’s space in the back forum was left pristine while he was away. It was a sign of respect not to scavenge off of a brother, no matter how tempting the horde. He took a moment to clean the copper lantern under the shuttered window above him, the slats since repaired so he could open it in the summer, and hid his newest elixir away under a pallet he used as a makeshift desk. Pulling out a lockbox from the crate with his books and other essentials, he picked it skillfully and dropped the small parcel of coin into the pile he was slowly accruing. 

Six years he lived in House Arnii. Six years and all he had was seventy-four sovereigns to his name. Zevran guessed it was better than where he started, but it was a far cry from having any meaningful value. The success of this errand would add to this though, and then perhaps he would allow himself to get a better blade. Or boots. His were wearing thin.

He pondered over what was left in the leather bag, pursing his lips thoughtfully as he drew out the shoulder of his silk robe. Unwilling to discard it on his journey back to the City, he knew of someone who might appreciate the luxury of such an item more than he could. That would be another reward.

Taliesen rounded the foyer excitedly as the young man descended the stairs. The beam in his eyes could not be missed, “You’re back!”

“In the flesh,” Zevran returned a weary smile.

“Come!” The housemaster passed him back up the stairs toward his quarters, “You have to tell me all about it before we leave to see Gynn.”

“There is nothing really to tell,” the younger acquiesced as he followed to sit against the wall in the far corner. 

Taliesen brushed him off with an offering of wine and a rind of bread, “I need to know the details.”

Was it more for his pride or to make sure he understood the story before it reached the ears of the Guild Master? Zevran chewed on his cheek and sighed, “I did what was asked. I followed Surgen’s instructions, sailed to Afsaana, met with Nembaro’s entourage, my letter in hand. It was all a little easy, really.”

“Yet four months, you were away,” Taliesen pushed. What was asked of his comrade was not so easy. He was to infiltrate into a merchant prince’s household and assassinate him without suspect. What was more, he was to impersonate an Imperium citizen, the death to be blamed on the Magisters Court in the West. The poison was explicitly forged with the signature of the Vice Tacdae, an archive that housed all of the most potent reagents beyond the Chantry’s reach. The only sign of the Guild’s involvement at all was the petite bottle left on the bedside table. His instruction was to leave it visible and obvious to any who saw it.

“Nembaro was notoriously difficult to get near,” Zevran conceded, “Sure, we were oft in same company, but I neh had chance until the end.”

“So, how did you do it?”

He took a bite of the bread, speaking as he chewed, “I waited until he was asleep.”

“You snuck into his room, what without his guards’ notice.”

He shook his head and sipped his wine. In his time away, he now understood Cerelus’ reverence toward brandy.

Taliesen was not stupid, and he knew the mark’s proclivities as much as anyone else. A pause settled between them as his friend solved the puzzle, “Did you sleep with him?”

There was astonishment in his tone that Zevran did not like. He grimaced, refusing to look up, “Nigh give me grief. I did what I had to do to finish the errand.”

Taliesen was also not one to normally argue the methods of his brethren. Indeed, in their world, an assassin could not quibble too much if it meant that the task was successful and he survived the ordeal to tell the tale, leaving out the pointed details that might spoil it, of course. This particular job required more than stealth or arms or wit, though; it was something the housemaster thought his ward might have been unable to pull off, no matter how much he was disinclined to speak his mind to the Guild Master. If Zevran was successful, it meant more to the House than he knew. After all, all great things came with risk.

It was a long moment again before the housemaster spoke, his voice louder than he wished, “Did you enjoy it?”

Zevran snapped up and then looked away just as quickly, heat reaching his cheeks. He was unsure how to answer. He never slept with a man before, and he did not know what to expect. That was never the plan in the first place, but that was what happened, and he could not change it now. His mind wandered back to the private bay and the easiness of their conversation. He thought about merchant prince’s gaze and the lingering affect it had on him not too dissimilar to the magister he was tasked to kill on the Quintas Road three summers prior. His eyes were filled with unspoken promises of something better. Promises that the young man desperately wanted to believe, all the while he knew them to be untrue.

“You know if I could pass on anything I have learned in my life to one such as you, it is to take pleasure where you find it.” The phrase struck a chord between them as the prince sat back in the chase. It was as though he knew but was unwilling to break the spell. Perhaps the Shem always understood that he was marked, yet chose to accept his fate with grace for whatever reason. He finished humbly, “To be undone by beauty is the greatest triumph of the Maker. It is so preciously rare.”

In truth, it felt like what he thought a woman might feel when a man fell under her charm. Zevran thought of Sinette then, and his blush deepened. She spent many summer evenings teaching him her ways, all of which he was happy to oblige in as long as it meant he could hear her sighs in his ear, feel her caress on his back, and sense her quake beneath him. The notion of being the receiving end gave him yet another perspective, perhaps more appreciation, on the desire that he sought from her.

There was no opportunity to answer anyway. When Zevran finally turned back, he noticed Cregin nudge into the room, “Taliesen, there is a problem.”

Indeed there was a problem. The trio walked out to the back forum where a sampling of the Salty Brood assembled around the well. At the center of the semi-circle stood Velnas, obviously overcome by emotion, gesticulating wildly around him.

“He was a bloody fool!”

Taliesen motioned the circle to part, and rounded on his stout comrade with wary hands at his shoulder. Velnas shoved him away, pacing along the edge of the manned enclosure.

“What happened?”

Velnas and Borne were tasked an errand together, as always. The pair was inseparable for years after their mercenary work in the Free Marches. Their roles were usually that of sentries; their tall, brawny forms were more intimidating than the cut of their swords. The tasks were not daunting, but usually required travel. Velnas would often return with trinkets from far off places, having ventured all over Antiva. Usually, each item was followed by a story involving a woman or a fight.

“The sod got in the way, yeah!” The dark-skinned Shem motioned sharply, keeping his pace.

Cregin stepped in, “There was an ambush on the Coastal Road near Salle. Borne was killed.”

“He killed himself!” Velnas shot back, “He got in my way!”

The housemaster was straight to business, “And the errand?”

At first the brother wanted to say something harsh, Zevran saw it for only a moment. But then Velnas’ face screwed shut into a scowl before he answered lowly, “Your errand is done, nigh to worry, as am I with this place.”

Taliesen rolled his eyes, tilting his head to the side, trying to reason with his fellow man, “Hey, nigh but be calm. You are upset, yes? It is understandable.”

“You know,” The older Shem backed away toward the far side of the forum in an attempt to walk around the circle, “I used to think I was escaping something when I left the Marches. I told him we would be living a more honest life. But, I was wrong.”

“Stop.”

“You are a liar, and you gave us the worst gift. False hope, you did.”

“What could I have done to change this?” Taliesen was suddenly defensive. Straightening, he purposely blocked Velnas’ route to stand at eye level, “You knew the cost of this path. I neh twisted your heart!”

“You told me we would be well taken care of! And yet, here we are taking our way from the scraps of Hounds!”

This was clearly an insult. Their errands were meek and worth little by many accounts, as Zevran pieced together over the years. Surely it kept food on the table, garments repaired, and the tavern full, but it was not what many in House Arnii expected when they joined their merry band of experience. Every brother from the House was skilled in something, which was saying more than many Crows in Dockside. Many of them felt their skills were going to waste too, although they were loathed to speak candidly to the housemaster about such things.

“I am doing what I can! Surely you are better off from where you started, no?”

“My friend,” his face twisted, “My only friend is dead! How is that better?”

They were nose to nose, and it was then that Zevran noticed Taliesen’s hand on the hilt of his sword. Would he follow through if the threatening stance of his lesser beckoned him?

“It nigh is.”

Everyone in the forum turned toward the young man, and heat flushed his tanned cheeks before he knew it. There was really nothing much of worth to say beyond his observation, but he nudged forward anyway toward the brawny figure. Calmly, Zevran placed a palm on Velnas’ shoulder, “I gather he saved your life, yes? Would it nigh be better to honor his memory than muddy it here, now?” 

He breathed through his nose and considered the Daedric’s suggestion. Once he began to back away, the young man tightened his grip.

“Come, I’ll buy you a drink and you can tell me all about how you two met,” his tone was light, nonchalant. “We will have a toast and then go around and talk about all the fables of our lost friend. It will be a fitting end to a fitting beast, yes?”

Just as quickly as the scene escalated, it seemed to dissipate as Zevran led the grieving brother away from the well and back into the brick building. A stunning stillness invaded the space at their absence, leaving the housemaster to catch his breath, wiping the subtle line of sweat from his brow. He peered up to the Salty Brood now looking upon him with concern in their eyes, and he forced himself to don a smile in order to ease the tension, “We should honor his memory. Good stories around!”


	24. Part Four Chapter Two

Zevran’s head hurt the next day, but he retrieved himself and began his daily routine. It was important to have mundane tasks, he realized, to keep his thoughts on what was important. He briefly met the Nevarrans and garnered the grain he needed, made several deliveries and found himself back at the house by mid-day to clean up. Four months was too long to be away, he decided.

He walked a path beyond the tavern he memorized by heart, circling around the front façade carved with a delicate saying in Orlesian he deciphered long ago: 

_To adore a woman is nigh the contest as to grasp her_

Despite his proficiency with the blade and errands tasked to him, Zevran never really acquired a taste for fighting. Instead, the Daedric preferred errands that allowed him the use of stealth or, if needed, a good dose of charm. Charisma was something that Zevran oozed with abundance, and it was once he realized such a trait could be used as leverage that he became dangerous. Distraction was his game, particularly on women if he was given a choice, for he also relished in the attention and tended to gain some secondary benefits if luck was involved.

Zevran adored women. It was a passion that utterly consumed him. They were whimsical and delicate. He saw even the basic, most lowly maid reveal a grace left solely for the better sex, and he longed to be near it. If he could conjure even just the briefest smile out of a woman, his job was done as far as he was concerned. And the Daedric never spared a mischievous grin for a courtesan. His favorite, expectedly, was Sinette. After all, she was his first introduction to the whims of the female heart. She was small in stature and mild in character. But she also had surprising wit and enjoyed bantering with her admirer as much as he enjoyed watching her preen and fuss about her appearance coyly. 

The Anethlan Courtesans, as they were known in Dockside, were some of the fairest in the eastern blocks and had consorts all over Tern. House Arnii was highly esteemed because they took great care in retaining the lifestyle in which the ladies were accustomed, in large part due to Taliesen’s insistence. Respecting the courtesans was the only way to get their desires met, and the last thing the housemaster wanted was a House filled with bored, unsatisfied men.

But, as the housemaster was quick and sincere to point out, these women were not mere prostitutes. They were an extension of the Crows, the feminine cure to the woes of men. Like many Guild members in the City, the ladies were also related to a Guild member, and to upset one unduly or abuse her would mean the wrath of her kin. Courtesans were not simply reserved for carnal pleasures either. They were escorts to the powerful, well known musicians, and artists. Some even married into prestigious and royal houses, representing the Guild with her House name. Their role was essential to the makeup of the City. They were the flowers in the desert.

As was custom, whenever an admirer came to the courtesan, he brought with him a gift, a gesture of his devotion. The item was never gold, as that was insulting; rather, she was given something of value that could be traded or used as she saw fit. A courtesan could have as many consorts as she liked, which sometimes was a source of trouble, especially if the admirers were from rival Houses. 

Sadly, Zevran was poor, so when he had something of note to give, he made the most of it. His friendship with the Nevarrans helped, and he was often able to acquire unusual items from far-off places. For example, Sinette had a penchant for silk. So, when Izeek presented a series of embroidered patches from Orlais, the Daedric naturally began collecting them. Each square was composed of a tiny scene of the countryside complete with a delicate lace frame. The Nevarrans hinted they probably originated from a tablecloth, but such details fell on hollow ears. The pieces were pretty, and Sinette was quick to adorn her skirts with them, sewn into a sash around her waist. 

So today, as Zevran rounded the corner to the back of the Courtesan’s House, he brought with him a special gift. In recent years, he stopped going into the establishment at the front, choosing instead to surprise his flower. She always met him with wide eyes, like she knew she would receive a special present from this admirer, and would drop whatever she was doing to meet him. Her smile was intoxicating, and the young man was already lost in the afternoon ahead.

There was a young Daedric maid at the well as Zevran approached. He nodded and she nudged up from the laundry she was washing in a bucket. Her hair was a mess of knotted tweed falling over her eyes. This one must be new, he realized, as it was not uncommon to have migrants wander through in the spring looking for work. He paid little mind she continued to stare skeptically at him when he opened the back door to the kitchen and entered.

Bread was in the stove, and he briefly thought to steal a loaf on the counter before he saw a hand snatch at the basket protectively.

“Who are you? Nigh a package today.”

His eyes adjusted to the darkened room, and Zevran grinned. Two new ones. This one was tall, thin. Her long dark hair, half tied up in a braid, loosely fell over her lithe shoulder. Large green eyes and pink cheeks flushed slightly as their silence became uncomfortable.

He reached again and this time claimed the corner of a loaf. It was halfway in his mouth before he muttered an apology and continued down the hall, slapping his free hand on the ceiling beam at the hallway entry.

Sinette was exactly where he expected her to be, sewing at the window in her room. A soft hum emanated through the door as he slowly opened it to peek in at her. When he wanted to be, Zevran was wholly silent in his steps, which he often used to his advantage. Nimble hands grazed her shoulders and cupped her mouth before she could cry out, the lady’s fingers now gripping all too tightly in shock.

The young man chuckled in her ear and Sinette let a small growl escape, “Zev! You are a monster!”

“Only when you like me to be,” he kissed her on the check and sat down on the window still. Her window had such a lovely view of the harbor. He pulled the satchel strap over his shoulder and handed it to her, “Unless, of course, you nigh desire my gift.”

Sinette was a petite woman. The pair was almost the same height, and her thin frame and delicate profile was more Daedric than Shem really. Her owlish eyes were like pools in the light filtering through the window, and he could already see the excited expression etching across her mouth. The lady grasped at the bag, and flipping it open, she paused for a moment in awe.

“It’s beautiful,” She barely mustered as she gently lifted the layers of brown and green folds from within the leather casing. The stitching along the shoulders was understated with glimmering embroidery that lazily drew down into that of a bird on the back. The robe folded over the front and pinned together at a high neck and waist. She turned back up to him, “Where did you get this?”

Zevran broke into a casual grin, “Try it on.”

Her excitement could not be contained as she all but jumped out of the chair, only turning demurely when she reached her wardrobe, “Be a gentleman.”

He smirked, suddenly now quite interested in the harbor, all the while glancing at the reflection in the window glass. Sinette was such a lovely creature, he remembered.

It was only a few minutes before she called his attention again, and when Zevran turned, it was like looking at a memory of himself. The Tevinter robes caught her figure perfectly, her subtle curves enhanced by the clips at her waist. She pulled her hair up into a messy bun and gave him a sultry stare that he could not possibly ignore. Calmly, he retrieved himself from the sill and glided toward her, his fingers flitting on the embroidery near her chin.

“Do you like it?”

A kiss was her answer. It drew him in like a rip current out to sea, tumultuous and overpowering, threatening to drown him. Sharp twangs of desire crawled up his backside and into his gut like electrical shocks. She let him spiral nibbles down her neck, undoing the buckle deftly.

“Where have you been?” She mewled between sighs, “This place has been so dull without you.”

“Seeing the world,” he mumbled into her collar, cupping her breasts beneath the soft fabric. He traced his tongue along her jawline before meeting her lips again, his half-lidded eyes promising to enlighten her, “Would you like me to show you what I’ve learned?”

Their afternoon passed blissfully, filled with cries and breathy moans. He savored every sensation he could conjure, her taste sweeter than he remembered. Zevran felt stronger, more dominant than before. More insistent, holding her hips tightly when he fell over the edge once and then again later. Finally, slick from exhaustion, they rested together in a crumpled heap on her coverlet.

“Spend the day with me,” he requested, a smile playing on his lips as he ghosted his fingers over her back. Sinette pursed a feline grin as she cupped his cheek affectionately. How could she deny him?

So they spent the afternoon together. And the evening too as this courtesan was not yet willing to let this admirer go until well into the next morning. Sinette asked for some cheese and port to be brought up to her room and draped herself across her lover’s lap in front of the fire. There were faint murmurs drifting up from the main hall below, a celebration of something wholly uninteresting to them. Zevran sat back against her bedpost, his hands idly combing the woman’s mussed golden mane with a smile on his face. This was worth every moment he was away.

The door clicked and opened. Sinette careened from her position and motioned to the space between them. Neither was dressed, but that mattered little in such spaces, and neither moved from where they were sitting. One of the Daedric maids from earlier, the tall, thin one, came into Zevran’s line of sight, her expression of surprise creasing a line into her brow. Sinette did not seem to notice as she immediately grabbed the decanter and pour two measures, all the while the pair stared at each other. The young man dared a smirk, a smug grin from his bare position on the floor.

The courtesan turned back and glared, “You may leave.”

As though jolted from some thought, the maid curtly nodded, taking one more moment to glance toward the courtesan’s companion before exiting the room. Zevran tipped his cup in thanks, never letting his smile or his subtle wink falter with their eye contact.

“Good help is so hard to find,” Sinette sighed into her cup.

“What happened to the Rivaini?”

“Oh, who knows!” She exclaimed, taking a swig, dabbing at her cheese, “That one and her kin are from the Marches. Kirkwall, I think.”

He was still watching the door as he clucked, “Kirkwall is quite a long way.”

She hummed in agreement and then with delicate fingers, pulled her lover’s attention back to her, “Mind where you look, dear sir.”

“Are you jealous?” He let her feed him a slice of cheese. The strong bitter taste hung on his tongue. Sinette only smiled more confidently, reaching to him to mix the flavor with their port.

His morning was lazy, but he had things to do. Zevran let Sinette sleep, a bundle of curls cascading over the blanket to hide her fine face from the sunny window. He crept down the stares and through the kitchens without notice.

He would do the deliveries first today, he decided, momentarily returning to the house before heading up the Golden Mile. The morning breeze was relaxing, far off memories floating back to him as he passed the first, then second merchant block. How many times did he sit outside these homes and wait for the Master, watching as people passed by? Their clothing was always so pristine. So bright and pressed. Their gate so composed and at ease as they chatted about their business. It seemed foreign now, at odds with the wear of his clothing and directness toward his goal.

Zevran entered the alley to the backside of an estate. Taliesen requested a wrapped package be delivered here, but refused to offer a reason. The parcel fit in his hand and was to be placed next to the servant entrance. The young man extracted himself from the small courtyard, after setting it discretely against the wall, and was about to head back from where he came when he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.

Instantly, he ducked behind the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly nudging around the corner to look again, any doubt was erased.

Across from the courtyard was a gate slightly ajar. At its entrance stood Ren, his focus solely on a Daedric woman on the other side. Her black hair was tied into a proper bun, her clothing subdued but of good make. She was smiling warmly at him and muttering something, taking a step closer, her hand grazed his crossed arms. Such a motion visibly relaxed the Daelish man, and Zevran could see the corner of a grin on his left scarred cheek turned away from him.

Ren was never a casual person. Even around the Salty Brood, he was aloof to such a degree that it came off as arrogant to his roommate. He rarely had anything to say, choosing his words carefully, often with a distrustful outlook. His mind was on other things. Always on what he considered better things. It became clear quite quickly to Zevran that his brother was occupying his time at the House with benign tasks to distract himself, but the young man could never figure out why. He was disinterested in woman, never paying the courtesans any mind. Perhaps this was the reason.

And then another reason came into view. At Ren’s knee, a small hand grabbed at his boot. The man looked down and his grin expanded. His partner looked down as well and chuckled, muttering something else beyond Zevran’s earshot. The murmur sounded pleasant, loving. Ren reached his hand down, beyond the gate, and patted the child’s head before looking back at the woman. He nudged his chin, a characteristic sign he was getting ready to leave.

Zevran pulled himself back into the courtyard, almost winded by the revelation. Did Taliesen know? Was what Ren had even permitted in their motley crew? This must be why he was always so threatening whenever the younger followed him or questioned all this time. A sense of spiteful power claimed the young man with such knowledge. What would Ren do if he made it known to the housemaster? 

The Daelish brother never did him any favors, and in fact he still made living in the House insufferable. Three times, the pair got into physical scuffles over the years, their mutual animosity boiling over into unspoken rage. It was not like Ren had any control over him, yet he chose to dictate how things should be whenever he thought Zevran got out of line. He would step uncomfortably close when he thought he could win over the argument. Stare him down into submission. It was too much like what a Hound would do to the younger man, and the malicious retorts often started that way. Ren picked the fight because he knew Zevran would rise to the occasion and finish it. Even if the end result was bloody, the fight never seemed to quell the hate the two shared for each other.

He saw the silhouette pass him down the alley, but he stayed put just to be safe. It would serve no purpose to let Ren know he was there; more likely spoil any leverage he might have. He would take it to Taliesen, he decided, if nothing else, to share his concern over such secrecy.


	25. Part Four Chapter Three

The tutorship between Zevran and the housemaster was one of ever expanding duty. As their afternoon sparring sessions became less about fighting technique, their banter was instead filled with more relevant stories of their fine City. Outwardly, the young man was a guard of sorts, following Taliesen around on errands and listening in on conversations like an impartial wallflower. He was not there to contribute information so much as he was to absorb the discussion and recall it later. Behind closed doors, however, the teacher was gifting his ward with more subtle lessons on how the underbelly of their Guild worked, for whatever the younger had not already gleaned from his brethren.

Zevran had to question why Taliesen was so interested in bestowing what was considered trusted, secreted knowledge on him. He was certainly no leader, still too fresh to truly offer advice other than what he observed. He was full of opinions, no doubt; whether they were informed was another story. Still, the Daedric was intelligent enough to allow the housemaster to use him as a sounding board for ideas as they happened to crop up, and if for nothing else, to catch up on the local gossip. And of course, it only helped that Zevran was charismatic too, thus his presence was rarely received negatively in the company of other Guild members. The extra representation of House Arnii was a boon in a large room, or so Taliesen believed.

It was evening again before Zevran ventured back into the House. Apple in hand, the young man leaned on the worn doorframe to the housemaster’s quarters and waited. They never did finish their conversation the other day.

Taliesen turned halfway from his seated position in front of his desk and scoffed, “Where have you been?”

He took a bite and entered, “Sinette.”

“For two days?” A wry smirk emerged on his face.

Zevran shrugged and for a moment there was silence between them. Taliesen resumed his activities lording over a stack of parchment before him. It seemed like all the housemaster did was paperwork as of late, and from his little corner, the young man could see that this round of bookkeeping focused on a list of invoices of some sort.

“I learned something interesting today,” he said coolly as he took another bite.

“Oh? Do tell.”

The Daedric paused, perversely savoring the moment, “Did you know Ren has a child?”

“Of course.” The way Taliesen answered was so offhand that Zevran paused mid-chew to stare at him. He glanced back from the table, “Would nigh be good housemaster were I unaware of my men. He has a son, about six years of age. Neh one for the courtesans – he found due more to his tastes, it seems.”

Suddenly, the bitterness left him, replaced with cold anger and guilt that flushed bright red at the base of his scalp. Ren was always living a double life then. Just as suddenly, he felt his hunger leave him too. Zevran asked slowly, “What will happen?”

“To the child?” The older man replied into his paper, “Oh, in a couple more years, he’ll be introduced to the fold, I’m sure.”

“To the Hounds.” It was more a statement than a question.

Taliesen shrugged and looked toward his companion with a solemn expression, “Nigh much choice for him, I fear. Neh coin or influence to guide him.”

Zevran’s shoulder sagged, the wind taken out of his sails. Whatever hate he may have held for the older Daelish man, he could not begin to imagine the weight of such a burden. How isolating it must be to know someone he loved would be taken eventually without any ability to change their fate. Was this why there was so much cruelty between them? 

“I want to talk to you about something,” Taliesen was not one to dwell on topics that were none of his concern, however. With a swift wave, he dropped his quill and rubbed his forehead absently, “Close the door.”

Zevran placed the half-eaten apple on the desk and obeyed. Returning to his corner, he was already lost in thought before the housemaster bothered to speak up again.

After a long moment, Taliesen stifled a sigh, “We are in trouble.”

The younger peeked up. The housemaster remained still, staring at the desk before him, a grimace etching his sharp jaw. The color was sapped from his cheeks. He appeared gaunt from lack of sleep, and it was at this moment that Zevran realized the anxiety hidden in Taliesen’s words.

“You know, I’ve been head of House Arnii for near ten years,” he began. “Nigh fresh from the boat, they tried to haze me – into Stil, in fact.”

Zevran looked out the window in the direction the housemaster pointed. Facing his colleague again, he questioned, “You’re a Hound?”

“Most Crows are Hounds, Zev, lest you buy or whore your way out of it,” his cynicism evident, Taliesen reached for his cup and filled it with wine, “But then, only your kin benefit anyway.”

Briefly, the Shem righted himself and scooted over to sit next to Zevran as though to convey some conspiracy between friends, “I need your help, I think.”

The young man took a swig from the cup offered to him, the flavored mingling oddly with the apple.

“We nigh get the right errands, and I am at an end of what I can do. My debts tally and Gynn is – well he is demanding.”

He could sense there was more but was unwilling to press, “What can I do?”

“You seem to know your way with the brothers. The merchants. You even seem able to slip tibs from the bar handle on odd occasions. Better than I could do,” Taliesen paused to bite his inner cheek. He was obviously uncomfortable with what he was about to say, “I want you to look at some of the notes and see what stands.”

Zevran balked, straightening himself against the wall, “You want me to negotiate the contracts?”

“Neh think!” Taliesen was quick, “Just – just look them over.”

It was one thing to be a porter, a messenger, a follower, or a servant. It was another entirely to be an advisor. He was the youngest and lowest rung in the House, no matter if he was starting to gain a reputation. The tavern hummed with his stories, like a bard weaving tales. He had a way with women. He even had a way with coin, dubbed the Charm by Cerelus and the Golden Boy others. Whenever they went to bet on anything, they insisted on taking the young Daedric along. Zevran indeed enjoyed the attention, but the heart of it was light. He was still simply passing day to day, trying to get what he needed done so he could focus on the matters required of him. To the small cupboard in the attic where he kept his most precious of things. To keeping food in his stomach and his neck beyond the blade.

But this notion alone was also counterintuitive. Zevran was bored. So much so, he started stealing books to pass the time. He negotiated at the stalls with the Nevarrans’ clients. He smuggled items in and out of Tern on his daily errands in return for various trade, particularly herbs he found an interest in. He wanted something to do. He wanted to prove his worth more than the sum of his heritage, or lack of it. More than anything, he wanted his skill recognized.

“I would require little time of you, just a few thoughts about what you’ve heard, what you think,” The housemaster looked worried, although he still wore his casual smile and sipped his wine expectantly. He nudged Zevran slightly with added incentive, “I’d even let you have pick of your favorite, if so desired…”

There was hesitation in his words, and Zevran peered over to the housemaster now leaning on his shoulder. Taliesen was not one to offer work lightly, yet the tone seemed more desperate than an order. This was a true request between friends. Yet, there was some other veiled meaning that the young man could not quite decipher.

“Alright,” Zevran held his gaze, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The response mollified the man enough as he visibly relaxed against his ward. The look in his eye did not go away, however. 

“You’ve always been a right man, you know,” Taliesen said then, a weak snort sending the message that this was not common amongst their brethren. The Shem shook his head, still leaning against the younger, “This still manages to surprise me.”

“I neh see reason to defy you.”

“I neh said you did,” He corrected quickly. The following words were more thoughtful, “But… I am ever grateful. More than you know.”

The silence was deafening. Zevran could hear the sounds of the merchants hollering down the street, and it took a slight touch on his cheek and side-glance before he realized what was really happening to his comrade beside him.

Indeed, it was not the first time Taliesen hinted at such things. In the forum, a minor slip or an awkward pause caught Zevran’s attention on more than one occasion. Still, on the outset, their camaraderie was more out of a brotherhood; a steep learning gifted to the young man through hard experiences like tokens of kinship not found elsewhere in the House. The attention was warranted if the housemaster was truly to make him a proper swordsman – the rumored protégé of House Arnii. 

This look, an appraising question, a permissive glance was different though, Zevran knew. Zevran knew because he had seen it before. Unspoken promises were bid to him through hazy blue eyes, half-lidded by uncertainty and doubt. It was an honest, tender expression that he was not expecting. He felt the fingers on his left cheek softly draw a line down to his chin, and without thinking he closed his eyes and allowed Taliesen to close the gap.

The touch was tentative at first, hesitant and gentle. Zevran felt slim fingers weave into his hair. He could feel the subtle exhale of his friend’s breath on his cheek. He felt the need to reach back instinctively, pulling the other into a more deliberate kiss. And then, he lost himself in a deep well of emotion he could not place, catching them both off guard in the tiny room as each one slowly fought for dominance in their dance.

The Daedric eventually found himself prone against the floor, engulfed in a sense of longing. Taliesen was crouched above him, nuzzling his neck, holding onto him tightly. It was the strained, muffled whisper that brought him out of his reverie.

“Zev.”

Zevran would be lying to himself if he denied how such need made him feel. It was exhilarating. Intoxicating. But this was not his merchant prince. This was not Rivaine. This was the dank port of Dockside. And this was his housemaster.

The young man forced his eyes to open and placed his hands on the shoulders above him to push them to part. Both panting, disoriented, he observed the Shem above. Taliesen hovered, confused and bewildered, his dark short hair tousled by their brief union, his lips parted as to question him. The moment sunk him in the gut, and the Daedric’s eyes widened in horror.

“Get off me!” He hissed, jamming his palms hard into his colleague’s shoulder.

Taliesen acquiesced, and together the dreadful silence consumed the space once more as Zevran sat back up against the wall, all the while checking himself, straightening himself. He needed to leave. In a snap movement, the young man was through the door and down the hall, feeling the cool breeze catch him as he exited the brick building, filling his senses with the spring sweep of brine from the Bay.

What had just happened? What was he doing? Confusion wrought Zevran as he walked blindly through the evening street, through the crowds until he could find someplace quiet, hidden to think. A sickness, a sorrow surged through him at the memories, all the figures, the pairs of eyes with the same look, the same desire, same sweet unspoken lies passed to him with a single stare. The mage on the road. The merchant of Rivaine. Even the Courtesans, if he deigned to think on it long enough. With them though, the promise was simply a fleeting moment, a dream before he awakened to realize such things were only transient, the affair a trick to deceive him or a caress to placate him. But how comforting the lie had been in the moment. Oh, how badly be wanted to believe it. Taliesen must have seen in him his weakness and used this to his advantage.

Anger replaced the sickness, but not the sorrow for how utterly alone he felt now.

Zevran finally settled himself on a wooden crate on the far edge of the pier. The stars were above and the blackness of the waves braking against a barrier island off in the distance created a jagged line on the horizon. The muffled sounds of the evening streets behind him were dim in the night. How long he sat idle there, the young man did not know, but his thoughts were wild indeed.

He wished he could run. It was not the first time he felt the acute drive ever since the Master died. The Crows would hunt him, he knew. There was nowhere for him to go. He thought of the Daelish and the Wood to the north. If Ren was any indication of how welcome he would be, there was nothing for it. 

He should not have been so quick to retaliate over petty grievances, he admonished. Ren always looked to him as though he was out of place. Like the House of Stil, reputation alone did not earn a way into a House without skill behind it. It was not fair. He could see with sudden clarity how his presence was not fair to the older man. He would be regarded just as oddly in the forest, were he to appeal to them. He belonged in the City with his own kind, huddled behind the protective walls like some chattel they were humbled to be. That was the way Ren spoke to him, as though he was blind to the reality of his world.

Perhaps he could catch a boat, but what captain would allow a Daedric stowaway with no skill of the sail? He would be tossed to the ocean. The Free Marches were still at war. Tevinter was a den of slaves, and Rivaine was surely looking for the slender so-called Ashunii with the silken poisonous touch.

If he stayed, would Taliesen try another advance? Did he have a choice at all in the matter? The older Shem was a mentor; perhaps as close of a friend as he could have aside from the Nevarran brothers, despite Zevran’s rebellious acts over the years. He was the housemaster, someone he could not directly challenge without a fight, one he wondered how certainly he would lose.

But Taliesen was also desperate. He was losing the confidence of his brethren, and if pushed too far, they might revolt against their House. Perhaps this was just as desperate an act on his part, reassured knowing someone was still on his side.

He did not hear the boots on the wood behind him, but he felt the deep voice vibrate over his back, renewing a shudder.

“I’m sorry.”

Zevran let out a deep sigh through his nose, “It nigh matters.”

“The truth is,” Taliesen slowly approached, leaning against an adjacent crate before solemnly admitting, “I’ve become quite fond of you.”

Fond. 

The Daedric man remained still, one knee pulled up against his chest defensively, the other dangling over the edge of the pier. The housemaster took a moment to observe how serene his charge appeared in the moonlight for how tense his poster remained. Zevran’s refined profile and high cheeks nearly glowed in the darkness, wisps of his straight, flaxen hair caught around the pointed tips of he ears in the steady breeze. He stared straight ahead at the breaking waves.

“You remind me so much of my youth,” He broke the silence, morphing into a sad smile, “Of my home. Maker, when I first arrived, I did everything in my power to rebel against the Guild. Drove Gynn mad.”

“Did he try to bed you as well?” Zevran could not help the bitterness that seeped through his words.

“No!” Taliesen jerked toward him before settling back on the crate. He continued, sighing, “You must understand, Zev. The Crows are nigh friend nor family. They are business partners. Neh more. From where I come from,” he paused, “this is a very lonely life.”

“What happened to Marius?” 

The question was abrupt, and Taliesen’s breath hitched as opened his mouth and closed it again. Zevran spared a peek to watch his reaction, even as the man continued to struggle to find the words. 

Finally, “He became a Templar. Shortly after I landed portside, I managed to sneak a letter to him,” His smile was gone, the pools of his eyes obscured by some sort of far off emotion. Softly, Taliesen laughed, “And I was ecstatic when I found a reply nigh two weeks later.”

“What did it say?”

“The letter was from his father, the Arl,” The housemaster bit his bottom lip, a common mannerism when he was unhappy. After a moment, he looked to Zevran with a grief in his eyes reminiscent to his own, “He simply informed me that Marius had joined the Order and never to write them again.”

Zevran turned to him. For the first time in their six years together, Taliesen truly appeared vulnerable. His back was stiff, his expression hardened against the backdrop of the harbor. How terrible it must have been to be torn from the only home he knew, to be rejected by those he considered kin to face a foreign land, customs, and people. Perhaps they were not so dissimilar after all. Perhaps it was simply camaraderie that the older man sought; a silent plea he was unwilling to give breath.

Zevran turned back to watch the Bay, relaxing the concerned expression now fixed across his brow. Closing his golden eyes, he considered, “If I look at the contracts, I want something in return.”

“Yes?”

“Privacy,” He breathed, taking in the harbor, “I want the space in the attic to myself.”

What he requested might seem odd, as Zevran was the only person to ever venture into the upper loft. However, the significance of such a request was deftly caught, as it implied that Zevran, like Taliesen, was allowed private quarters away from the rest of the House. He wanted his space sanctified in the eyes of the housemaster. No one else would have such privilege.

Taliesen turned back toward the dock and nodded. This would be the price of their partnership, then. “Done.”


	26. Part Four Chapter Four

The following Vantenii proved fruitful, far more so than any Zevran had yet experienced. He smiled knowing he had a part to play with such success.

Indeed, the pair spent many days discussing the potential bids beyond the initial request to compare the options to rumors at the tavern. Zevran and Taliesen not only debated the bid, but also who in the House would be assigned the errand should they win the contract and how the errand would be managed given their brethren’s strengths. And Zevran knew his comrades well. Cerelus was an expert thief and when backed by a skilled marksman – say someone like Ren – he could get anywhere and into anything he desired. Cregin was a bulldog, someone who was called upon to stand guard or prove a menacing influence when required. Velnas was the same, but without his friend by his side, the dark-skinned Shem was less apt to act as a front man any longer. His intelligence demanded more too, the Daedric reasoned. Instead, it was suggested that Taliesen give him a mark, which would return far more coin for his effort, and perhaps prove their House’s worth to the Guild Master in the process.

The other brethren in the House functioned similarly, although the housemaster was surprised by some of Zevran’s suggestions at first. Nevertheless, the payoff was clear as the plush satchel landed softly onto the low table with a collective clink.

“Ah, friends,” Taliesen balanced himself on the edge of his stool expertly, taking in the crowded room with gusto in his voice, “Andraste has blessed us with her holy work!”

The wooden tokens were pulled and names called; the small Daedric in the corner near the fire could not keep the smirk from slowly sliding into place. The men seemed satisfied with their presents as they examined the errands and chatted amongst themselves, readying to leave for the tavern with what little coin they had left to their names. For the first time in what seemed like a year or more, the House felt energized with more than just pent up frustration. It was refreshing.

Cerelus, ever observant, nudged his betting partner and sniggered, “We finally have something to do, yes?”

“It would seem so,” Zevran replied, smiling more fully.

“And you? What are you tasked with?”

Zevran chuckled quietly. Prior to the public display, he plucked three tokens especially for himself, but he was not about to say such, even to his closest ally in the House. He teased, “Neh the wayward pupil reveals his wins.”

Cerelus gave a gruff laugh and left for the tavern.

The following day was the same as all the days before. Zevran ran his errands as usual and returned to the House before Taliesen could drag him away for a gathering somewhere around the Grand Mile. The housemaster had been more relaxed in recent weeks as he finally came to terms with their joint venture. The young man did not receive any further advances either, much to his relief, and the pair went on as though the passionate exchange never occurred. Still, one was rarely seen without the other these days. They sparred together, ate together, drank together, whispered about local gossip on the shady back porch or in the housemaster’s quarters. Taliesen even opted for his student to accompany him on reports to Gynn, acting as the quiet observer and then asked to submit his thoughts on the interaction. He learned that the housemaster did not trust the elder for all of the esteem that was returned. The meetings were brusque yet polite, the portly man in charge seemingly with little time and only sharp remarks to the young men before him. He would cast a discerning gaze on the Daedric on occasion before he casually dismissed the pair.

In his spare time, what little he possessed now, Zevran would hole himself in the attic. Secretly, he believed that Ren was glad their shared room was abandoned for the loft, although the Daedric could also feel the tension that his privacy carried with several of the men in the House. No one would challenge him, though. He was Taliesen’s favorite, the alleged protégé, and even if they did contest his circumstances and won, they would then have to face a sword master in retaliation. The bitterness was not worth it, especially if there was work to be had.

Zevran organized his things. With a load of dusty crates, he partitioned a corner of the vaulted space near the far window with his makeshift desk, a raised pallet with a stuffed straw matt, a lock box, and a storage shelf where he kept personal supplies such as extra food, his clothing, candles and wine. At the center of his desk rested the copper lantern, polished reverently into a shiny golden hue. Below was a box in the far corner lined with cuttings and powders. The concoctions themselves were safely stored in the confines of the lockbox with several books he acquired specifically for this ‘hobby.’ He spent good silver on the wooden chest, more than his new boots he was still wearing in, but the item was necessary if he planned to grow his collection. So far, he kept hidden seven poisons of various potency, two sedatives, an elixir to stave off pain and another to keep one awake, and finally the new one, an aphrodisiac he was trying to create from a mixture of memory and anecdote.

He fingered the last bottle lightly, dressed appropriately in a delicate purple vial, and contemplated the next time he could pry himself away from Taliesen long enough to try it on Sinette. Or Lani, or even Tilly if the first two were not free.

It was no secret than Zevran was popular among the Courtesans; Sinette simply happened to be his favored. Quick trysts were always well and good, but in the end, she would woo him back into her arms. And he loved her for it in their trite way. There was no such thing as exclusivity in this world, yet what they had seemed close to it. She was his first, after all, and thus held a special place in his heart.

A visit was in order. In the evening then, when he could escape the clutches of his co-conspirator.

The afternoon dragged on longer than the Daedric would have liked. Two of the errands Zevran chose were to be worked together with the housemaster. One was a mark and the pair was preparing to leave the next morning for Rialto. The marked was a Guild Master, a rival among the crowd in the City, and Gynn wanted the man personally expunged. The act was to be silent, and no one was to know which House had been involved. Zevran saw this opportunity as a challenge and decided to coat serum of nightshade onto his dagger. Surely the process would be quick – Taliesen was to distract the guards through a series of traps in order to lead them away from the influence of their master, whilst Zevran found his way in to finish the job.

This errand would demonstration their finesse and reward them in kind. One hundred Antivan gold was the price, which left the young man just shy of twenty for his part. That would do.

Zevran might normally feel some unease, as the Guild Master was only marked for his competition with the Houses to the north. But what little was described reminded the young man of Gynn himself, and his growing dislike for the older man squashed any notion of guilt.

Taliesen motioned for the tavern to meet the others, but his partner declined.

“Plans,” was all Zevran said as he cheerfully separated himself from the housemaster in the alley.

Taliesen already knew, “You’ll catch the Death if you are nigh careful.”

“If sweet nectar brings me my Death, then I am a rapt apostle to her whims!” He returned, grinning and bidding the other goodnight with a bow. The sun was starting to set and drafts of light were waning as the Grand mile obscured its decent over the north gate. He chose the conventional route into the front façade for a change, admiring the carving along the arch of the doorway. Orlesian script was beautiful.

Zevran slipped through a side door at the entry, reconsidering that he might prompt for some port and cheese from the kitchen now instead of waiting until later when he would prefer not to be disturbed. The sound of a harp wafted through the plaster walls, aimed to relax, yet proving exciting to the young man. He opened the door into the low kitchen near the back and peered around.

Near the hearth, one of the maids from the last time he visited was preparing spices for a stew, and for the first time he was able to get a good look at her whilst she was lost in her duty. She was Daedric, or at least he assumed so since her posture, dress, and features were markedly different from Ren or any other northerner he had come across previously. She was tall and thin, her long silken hair flowing over one shoulder in auburn waves. Her face was solemn, though no wrinkles of worry or anxiety had yet etched her sharp jawline or high cheeks. Her eyes were great almonds, and Zevran could see, even from his vantage, the sea of emerald flitting across the wooden surface she was so focused on.

She was absolutely stunning.

Suddenly, Zevran felt that he did not wish to disturb her now that he had come all this way. Instead, he turned to leave up the stairs, but was stopped when the other maid made her presence known.

“Oy, you need something?” The other maid was smaller, her brown hair short and knotted around her pointed ears. She too had almond eyes, but they carried a harshness to them he was not prepared for, and the young man turned back to face the pair. The first maid stopped cutting at her pile and looked up to his gaze in surprise.

Mustering a charming smile, “Such a lovely pair, I must be lost.”

“Lost,” the servant repeated, her tongue clicking at the edge of the word. “Nigh can be lost, so often you are here.”

“Quite right,” he replied, hardly concealing the laugh that followed. He leaned against a beam to one side and motioned at the stairs, “I bring a gift, a favor, for a lovely lady here.”

She hummed knowingly, “Sinette.”

He nodded, his smile curling into a grin.

“Well, you should know she with another,” she drawled with her own vicious smile. The other woman turned stiffly toward her in shock and ire in her vivid orbs, her jaw clenched.

“Ah, well,” he conceded with a shrug, although internally he was slightly disappointed. He winked at the first maid, eliciting a gasp, “I shall have to find another who might fancy my gift then, yes?”

“You think this brings you worth,” The shorter one asked suddenly, standing between him and the other woman, a sneer now etching her petite face. Her dark bangs fell into her equally dark eyes a she lifted her chin up defiantly, “That you are regarded well by whores?”

Zevran’s easy smile drained from his face.

“Linne!” The other snapped, her voice smooth against the roughness of her friend. She spoke in Nevarran, “You must stop this!”

“Stop what!” Linne returned, teeth barred, “The pike mocks us with every breath.”

“Stop!” The first hushed, “Now! They will toss us from here if you speak so!”

“Neh, by who?” Linne threw back, her eyes narrowing into slits. She frowned, “Neh a care who we are as long as we do as told. Order the dishes. Wash the sheets. Clean the chamber pot. Neh a care. But this one,” she jerked her head in Zevran’s direction, her back now turned as she leaned over the table, speaking swiftly and with distrust, “Who is to say with this one? Look at him. He comes here to boast. He is but talk, fielding to his betters with neh the sense to know.”

The maid spoke more than from distrust though, he could tell. Linne did not like his kind. Zevran straightened himself from the support post and cleared his throat just enough to gain both of the women’s attention.

He spoke fluently, focusing on the underside of nails, “One should nigh be so quick to assume another man’s sway, yes?”

The maid slapped Linne hard in the arm, her long face pale now and adorned with beads of sweat. The other woman slowly stood upright again, waiting for the oncoming reprimand.

Zevran gave a stale grin, “You both seem aware of a whore’s life. Please, do relay how they conduct their business in Kirkwall.”

Linne snapped to attention, her expression seething, “Ma emma heral len’alas lath’din!”

Before she even finished her retort, the Daedric already held the maid’s kitchen knife to her throat, his grip loose against the handle. His smile was gone, his golden eyes flaring momentarily before he responded in Daelish, “Child, if you ever insult the Arlethan Courtesans again, you will learn first hand the way of your whores, this I can promise.”

Immediately, he released her, and the sound of the knife sinking into the wood at the maid’s side was enough to provoke a squeal of fright from both women. The sound of the back door shuttering was the only sign the man left at all.

Zevran made his way from the garden with rage in his steps. Never had another Daedric insulted him in such a way. An internal monologue of fury fogged over his thoughts of past arguments with Ren and comments from merchants who would look better onto a dog than give him the time of day. He could let those insults fall away because he settled that it was the way of such things. But one of his own kind issuing the same hubris… He closed his eyes and set a pace for the docks to clear his head.

“Crow!”

Zevran ignored the call as he sauntered into the alley. The young woman behind him stumbled off the landing and ran to the wall, her voice cracking in the cool summer evening.

“Crow!”

The daedric stopped at the corner to ponder his response, his irritation level with his footing. This was a waste of his time, he considered. Slowly, however, the maid’s plea sunk into his backside, willing the man to turn back. Zevran, usually so forgiving to the impulses of a woman, was not in the mood to be further ridiculed.

The first young maid he happened across in the kitchen, the brunette with the long soft face and giant green eyes, caught his glare and immediately bowed, head focused on the ground before him. She spoke with hesitation, her accent strong, “Please, you must forgive my cousin. She neh gives thought to her words.”

Zevran stifled a snort, looking off to the adjoining street with a cynical smirk, “Perhaps you should tether her then for the moments she speaks to those nigh so kind.”

She bit her lip nervously, nodding in acquiescence. Tears stung her eyes as she visibly withered against the wall. A long moment of silence fell over the alley then; even the far-off cries of the merchants were too distant to ease the tension. Eventually, Zevran let out a long sigh. Perhaps his anger was misdirected. It was surely not the one maid’s fault for the choice words of her relative, yet she took the brunt of the other’s punishment without question.

He turned back and asked quietly, “What is your name?”

The Daedric woman looked up from the wall and sniffed, “Rinna.”

Rin’na translated to ‘your bell’ or ‘chime’ in Daelish, and the notion made Zevran smile. It was a kind smile, pure in his inquisitiveness and open to no misunderstanding. He leaned toward the maid again before nodding to take his leave, “That is a lovely name.”

To his back, she blushed.


	27. Part Four Chapter Five

As expected, the errands were completed with a suave professionalism that left their Guild Master impressed. Zevran stood alongside his housemaster with a broad smile, eager to receive the recognition he thought he deserved. And together, the pair certainly made for a formidable match. Taliesen was a skilled tactician and politician, whilst Zevran was quickly perfecting the arts of stealth and influence. The more challenging the errand, the more they seemed to shine too, and it was not long before the duo earned a name all their own – the Duel Strings. When one was plucked, a harmony would surely play.

Before Zevran knew it, a year passed, and life for him finally became a comfortable one. House Arnii was well known amongst the Houses of Dockside, and the Salty Brood, all skilled in one manner or another, were kept busy with a continuous stream of work. The tavern was full, the Courtesans were pleased, and were any of them the wiser, they would know that at the center of it all was a young Daedric man quietly stacking the deck.

The partnership between Zevran and Taliesen created a tight bond that some might misconstrue as something more than friendship. Despite the housemaster’s initial misgivings and the tension between them, Zevran learned to truly care about his companion. They knew each other better than anyone else in the House, the secrets they held close to their hearts, and the history accompanying such. He imagined that perhaps this was the kind of fellowship that the Shem had with his lost friend back in Fereldan, before his life was abruptly upended. Taliesen refrained from further acting upon his desires, however, and that alone conveyed a tacit respect for the younger man he never dared take advantage of. In a way, the admiration was mutual.

There were a number of high profile errands in which House Arnii claimed contribution. Probably the most noteworthy cause was when a coup surfaced among the Royal Court in early winter with which the Crows were tasked to end without further attention drawn to the nation. The Crown had been called into question several times over the previous ten years after the assassination of two standing heirs to King Natala’s throne. Each successor since had been unable to avow for their inheritance, and the entire Court eventually ground to a halt. Yet, the kingdom was largely unaffected by so much drama because the Merchant Princes held far more sway on the governance of the kingdom than the monarchy, and most of the turmoil was kept quiet. 

But when a new heir was announced publically and without the approval of the Merchant Princes, a great urgency was created. Half of the Court rebelled against a circle of merchants who vied for control. Chaos erupted and for nearly three days, the whitewashed cobbled streets from the Steps to the Veshnee were stained red with blood from a collective mob raining terror onto opposing Houses and merchant families. As a last resort, the Chantry Mother herself called the entire House of Crows to action in order to reign in the massacre. 

Unfortunately, it was not the best moment for Zevran. He fell out of a window and narrowly escaped with his life. And to be fair, it was not his fault. He was pushed by one of his own on the frantic ascension up a staircase. Andraste’s luck again refilled his cup though when he managed to land in the deepest part of the canal bordering the North side of the Veshnee. He was luckier still, as he would have unlikely survived the guards awaiting the remaining assassins when they finally made it to the top.

Still, House Arnii benefited greatly from the end of the rebellion. Taliesen was recognized for his quick reflexes that saved Claudio Valisti’s life, one of the figureheads in the Crows. A large sum of gold was gifted onto House Arnii as a result, his Guild Master rewarded with additional influence among his peers.

After all of the dust settled, the housemaster was called to many, many meetings with Gynn. Taliesen was given more responsibility, and through the new duties laid out for him, Zevran learned that the hierarchy of the Guild was far more complex than he ever could have imagined. 

There were nine great Crow Houses of Antiva, known as the Talons. Each Talon was made up of a number of lesser Houses all over the kingdom, such as the House of Arnii, and each claimed a talent by which they were famed. For example, the Guidain Talon was known throughout Thedas for the skill of their floraesens. Sixteen Houses fell under the Guild Master controlling the great House of Guidain, and it was rumored that the Rogue Prince, a fabled heir to the Royal Court, was secretly partnered with them. The Valisti Talon, and the House of Vintolli from which Taliesen’s father originated, was known for their exceptional swordsmen. Other Talons were specialized marksmen, craftsmen, diplomats, politicians, thieves, and spies above and beyond the accomplished assassins the rest of the known realm envisioned. There was even the Cortigiana Onesta, the Talon that housed the most powerful women in Antiva and their Courtesans.

House Arnii was a relatively fresh house and low among the ranks under the Arnai Talon, the renowned House of Thieves. Arnii was somewhat unique too in that nearly all of the members were converts, an uncommon occurrence within the Guild. The Crows were a family affair, whereby a member was either born into their house or rose to join another through the many favorable exchanges associated with a long history of nepotism. Everyone was related to someone, and it was such relationships that kept the Talons from warring with each other.

At the foundation of every Talon were the Houses of Hounds. Generations of slaves, orphans, illegitimate children and unfavorable rivals were pulled into the fold by one of these dens, and the world these members experienced was a far cry from the houses that ruled them. Endless tests of faith and loyalty were hazed onto the inductees with the hope that those who survived would become idolized pillars of the Guild. Indeed, a Hound could make his way from the bottom of a den to the tip of a talon if his was worth was great enough, and his kin, should he have any, would benefit thereafter with the recognition of skills he mastered by being harbored into a known House. It was the ultimate dream to be acknowledged, one that Zevran could understand.

In the young man’s case, he was simply an acting guard for the housemaster, and thus, he was allowed to listen in on the conversations between Taliesen and Gynn, but he was forbidden to speak in them. This was a more difficult task than Zevran realized as he often had input that was at odds with what the Shem were discussing. He disagreed with many of the Guild Master’s approaches to challenging the Vancor and the other Talons in order to garner more favor for Arnai. For whatever reason, their arm had lost some esteem in the past, and it was Gynn’s duty to restore their worth by whatever means necessary.

Instead, the Daedric used his influence on Taliesen to spin his ideas. And his partner was eager to take on the younger’s viewpoints if they posed a boon for their House. Between offering opinions on the incoming contracts and the privileged knowledge on the unseen forces at play, Zevran felt a sense of power in his position no matter how clandestine it was. His reputation in House Arnii was almost reverent, both to the Salty Brood and around Tern, as a person of assured wit and character. It was easy to let such ego swell. So, the young man did whatever was necessary to facilitate this perception, and with enough luck, perhaps he could even change his fate.

It was summer again when Zevran found himself returning from the Grand Mile alone one afternoon. Taliesen was away in Rialto with the Guild Master, and the young man was asked to deliver a note on his behalf to the Vancor.

He walked casually, taking in the breeze sweeping upward from the valley, when something caught his eye. A Daedric woman, dressed all in silk, was slipping through the crowded market on her way toward the Steps. Her slight form was made slighter by the bodice cinching the fabric to her, long green sleeves elegantly cascading down her arms. She wore a grey scarf around her face, only exposing great almonds to the world before her, and it was this clue that gave her identity away.

“Rinna,” he muttered to himself. He had not seen the lovely maid in months, and he assumed she simply disappeared into the ether as many migrants do. Her cousin still served as a cook for the Courtesans, never failing to gift a nasty glare whenever she saw him, but she otherwise kept out of sight.

It was unusual to see a Daedric woman in the open. More unusual still was to see one so well dressed. Daedric Courtesans were a rare commodity in the City, and Zevran never met one before. They were kept precious to the Onesta, serving the elite Houses of the City. Indeed, like the Golden Boys of Tevinter, the Onesta Courtesans were rumored to be some of the most powerful consorts in Thedas.

He maneuvered himself across the block and subtly obstructed her path. By the time she emerged unaware, his arm wrapped around her shoulder carefully, returning a squeak for all of his effort. The woman, shocked, turned and succeeded to land a closed fist onto his chest before he reacted. Zevran chuckled and righted her before him.

“You have a quick impulse,” he said with a smile, “I should train you, I think. You could surprise your adversaries then with your beauty and skill.”

Wide green orbs shot up to meet his amber pools, and she took him in before replying, “You are the Charm, I remember you.”

“Yes, I have a name,” he reached for the scarf, tugging the edge under her chin, “and so do you, Rin’na.”

A blush flushed her tan cheeks, and she looked down to the ground. This reaction pleased him greatly, and Zevran clucked, “I have nigh seen you in some time. What brings you to the Road of Steps?”

She pondered for a moment, glancing toward her route. Her accent was still strong, “I am to deliver a message.”

She must be a maid for a merchant family, he considered. She was well kept; he could see the edges of a delicate braid from the opening in her scarf. He hummed knowingly, “Yes, and my dear, do you know where you are going?”

“Yes and no,” she said, her head teetering side to side, “I know I go to the first step, but from there, I am only to look for a gold crescent.”

“Ah, the Buelle House,” Zevran affirmed, straightening himself. The response caused the woman to turn back in surprise as he offered an arm, “You should have an escort, I think.”

Rinna hesitated, toying with the sleeves of her dress, “Nigh I should…”

He scoffed, “What house sends such a lovely woman on an errand alone? The City is a dangerous place! Come, come, I know the way, and I promise you will return before your master neh knows something’s amiss.”

Again, an arm was presented to the woman, and it was clear he would not be disregarded on the matter. Rinna chewed on her cheek and once she was tentatively locked into the embrace, and the man relaxed into a leisurely pace.

There was a quicker path available than the one she was taking, so Zevran turned the corner down an alley behind the Chantry to meet up with the road. The great bell rang then, its deep resounding boom echoed across the City with a warning, and the doors opened with an accompanied hum out onto the merchant block:

As the black clouds came upon them,  
They looked on what pride had wrought,  
And despaired.  
-Threnodies 7:10

The Chantry Mother had become particularly dark in her message as late. For each mass Zevran snuck out to witness since the coup, he was disappointed to find that the hymns were so negative where he would have preferred a comforting moment before he again was faced with the true evils in his world. It seemed she was chastising the attendees each morning and afternoon for their heresy and arrogance over the previous months. A little too late for such a missive as many of the ones she rallied on about died for the sins they committed.

The Steps were a series of terraced neighborhoods that encircled the western side of the City. Separated by canals and bridges, the sprawling villas created tiny suburban pockets wholly separate from the hubbub of the blocks below them. It was quiet and clean. At the center of each community were a small market, a local well, and a few merchants selling more refined wares. Children played freely along the paths between each compound. Patches of vines and brightly colored silken banners clung to the plastered exteriors as the pair passed. Many of the residents had summer homes to the South and likely had already fled the heat of the City for better climes. The young man surmised that many homes were empty. It was easy pickings, as Cerelus would say.

The entrance to the Buelle Villa was lush. A low arched fence opened into a sunlit garden. Rinna paused before the gate and turned to her escort.

“Would you wait here?” She asked, her expression meek as though she was unsure he would accept her request.

Zevran smiled and nodded, “Of course.”

She disappeared beyond the white wall, the trails of her dress flowing behind her in such a way that it reminded him of the wealthy women fluttering about their business when he was a child. Adorned with golden bangles and loosely tied scarves, they wantonly laughed about nothing as they trailed from Chantry back up the cobbled road. The memory caught him oddly, and he spent his few minutes alone pondering. What would the Master think of him now, so many years later? His little apprentice, who was glad only to only crush herbs and answer the door, who looked out onto the City below with a sense a wonder not yet soiled by cynicism and regret. Would he be happy to know his student was still taking up the art he was taught? Or would he cringe in disappointment for the acts he had to commit in doing so?

Rinna reappeared shortly, her petite form looking to Zevran for guidance. Straightening against the wall, he glanced at her and an idea came to him.

“How much of the City have you seen?”

The woman worried the fabric between her fingers, mulling over her response. She shook her head subtly.

Zevran understood her reticence to speak was a language barrier and he continued in Nevarran as he pulled himself from the wall and held out an arm, “There is this place that I know where you can see the entire city, the Chantry, the ships. I would love to show you, if you are willing, yes?”

She had trusted him this far; they were alone and he had yet to harm her. Rinna pursed her lips, one side lifting into a smirk as she reached for his arm, her cheeks flushed with a rosy pink.

And so they climbed the Steps far into the hillside, through the near empty streets and up the arched bridges. The journey was quiet, Rinna spending most of her time peering around in wide-eyed fascination as her escort pointed out significant markers along the way. Surely Kirkwall must not have such exquisite districts. They came to a quaint gate, and Zevran momentarily left the young woman’s side to find a suitable entrance. As suspected, no one was home, and after guiding her into the back garden, they climbed a set of stairs onto an open veranda. The sun was setting, already beyond the North Gate, and a cool breeze met the pair as they cast their eyes on the cream and tan layers below. The shore in the distance traced far beyond view to the north, creating strips of pastel blues and purples from which a thin white line of masts emerged, driving their ships to port. A lingering silence fell between them then, and he took a deep breath and sighed. 

“When I was a child, I would lay up here all day sometimes and simply watch.”

They were sitting on a bench near the edge of the veranda. Rinna blinked and turned, “You lived here?”

“In a different life.” He nodded, adding warmly, “I was a servant.”

Her long face set itself into a compassionate expression as though she already knew the answer to her next question, “And what happened?”

Zevran shrugged, “He passed on to Andraste when I was nigh yet a man, and here I am.”

Her eyes perked up. The way he spoke must have struck a chord, for her fine brow knit in confusion before she followed up with another tentative query, “Do you miss him?”

“Yes,” A flood of memories passing behind his eyes before he answered, “He was a very kind man.”

She nodded, looking toward the ground before resuming her gaze out onto the City.

“May I ask,” he began after another long stretch of silence, “What brings you and your kin to Antiva? It is so far away from Kirkwall, no?” 

“Aye,” She bit her lower lip and contemplated, “I am here for my brother.”

“Oh, you have a brother as well?”

She nodded, “My brother and cousin are Daelish. My family was originally from the Green Dales, but I was born in Kirkwall many years later.”

She specifically used the word ‘family’ rather than ‘clan’ to describe her kin. Zevran wondered how close she was to her traditions, “How did your family find their way to Kirkwall then?”

“Before my mother died, she told me that slavers came to claim them,” she explained. Her posture relaxed as she drew one leg up onto the bench for support and turned more fully toward her partner, “Many died and then more on their journey to the markets of Minrathus. But on their journey, a band of Nevarrans killed the slavers and freed them. What was left was sent south to Cumberland, but there was neh a place to go, so my mother, brother, and cousin sailed to Kirkwall in the hope that the alienage would take them.” 

Zevran nodded and hummed. The story explained why she was at ease with the Nevarran language, which was spoken widely from the Silent Plains to Wycombe. The concept of an alienage was strange, if for nothing else than the northern kingdoms eschewed them. Tern was like an alienage of sorts, filled with migrants and a class of people at the bottom rung of Antivan society. The difference though was that most of the residents were Shem. The Daedric themselves remained hidden from view, housed behind the walls of their employers as though they simply never existed at all. Even within the Crows, he rarely met another Daedric or Daelish like him, although there were rumors that some Houses preferred the fairer race, much like the Onesta preferred the fairer face, to serve the most privileged among the City.

“With two small children and neh a husband, my mother was forced to find work there.” Rinna continued, lost somewhere in memory, “She became a servant in a wealthy household, and I was born two years later.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Your father was from that household?”

She shrugged one shoulder, “I suspect, but she neh told me. We lived in the manor up until the lord supposedly died.”

“Supposedly?” Zevran chuckled.

Rinna quirked a sad grin, “He was foreign you see, and one day when I was four or five, someone came and told my mother he was dead, and that the estate was nigh our home any longer. So, we returned to the alienage, but things were neh the same.”

There was a dark twist to the tale then, “My mother died from the spate when I was six, leaving my brother, only thirteen then, to care for us. He befriended people who neh were good, but his work paid for food and house and cloth. These people… they changed him. He was nigh my brother anymore, but someone bitter. Hard. Recently, he got into trouble. He owed money to someone and nigh paid his due. So, these men came to the Alienage, armed, and took him from my cousin and I, and imprisoned him until the debt is paid by his work or ours.”

The Debters’ Prison of Lowtown. There were infamous stories recalled by sailors in Tern about the place. Kirkwall was a notorious slave port for the Imperium before the great Exalted Marches. Thousands upon thousands of people were stored within the vaulted City of Chains before they were auctioned and sent on their way. Since then, Kirkwall was considered free, but only in the open. The chains were still very much in use, only now to reap justice for merchants and swindlers alike.

“How much does he owe?” Zevran asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Rinna shook her head, holding back a well of emotion with a deep breath, “Too much, I think. Three hundred sovereigns.”

The young man’s eyes widened at such a price. He wanted to further inquire if it was gambling debt that cost her brother his freedom, but Rinna wiped a tear from her eye and continued shakily, “We came here to find better work in the hope that we could earn his freedom, but I nigh see how.”

He reached out to her with a warm embrace, and surprisingly, she allowed him. A quiet sob echoed into his chest, vibrating against his heart in a shuddering wave. There would be no possible way Rinna and her kin could raise such coin as a servant or cook. Her dying faith was valid, and it was this knowledge that caused Zevran to lose his resolve.

He would help her, he decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for continuing to read! You know, when I started this story, there was very little on the background of Zevran and less written about Taliesen and Rinna. So, I was happy to be left with a lot of running room to develop these characters. But, just last week, I was doing some research and found that the backstories were updated. Taliesen is implied to be from Tavinter and survived a shipwreck to get to Antiva, and Rinna is actually the bastard child of a prince. Even the guild master has a name (Eon) and the major house is called Arnainai, which you already know I used as Zevran’s mother’s name. SO, this messed me up at first because I really wanted to create a story that was canon-esque, and now with this new information, I’ve had to tweak it so my characters are not so AU. Hopefully, the result is ok.
> 
> Anyway, please review and let me know what you think! I would greatly appreciate it.


	28. Part Four Chapter Six

Rinna regained her composure and together, the pair watched the coastline sink into darkness and the moon ascend high enough to create a shadow. They returned on the quiet paths to the Merchant District, back to her home. The grand façade was unknown to the young man as he eyed the gate. 

The young woman pursed a shy smile and faced her escort, pulling down the scarf from around her chin so that the Nevarran accent would be less muffled, “I must thank you for your company today, my Charm. You are so handsome, so kind.”

“Call me Zevran,” He turned to her with a disarming grin. Genteelly, he took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles, his golden eyes flashing in the dark.

The woman’s expression was alight with her laugh, and Zevran thought he might just die in the moment with how it made the center of his stomach flutter. So unexpected his own reaction was, he dared not let go of her hand for fear of exposing the blush creeping up his cheeks. But the moment did end as she calmed and pulled away. Twisting to open the gate, Rinna stared directly into his eyes as she questioned then, “I must wonder, is that all you are?”

The query was innocent, yet somehow struck as hard as a blow from Taliesen’s sparring stick. Zevran straightened, unsure how to answer. Rinna stood hugging the edge of the gate, and half of her form was cast in shadow from the torchlight beyond. Like a poked wound, he was reminded how out of place he seemed in Dockside. Simply sitting on the veranda of his old Master’s villa eased his mind from years of worry only to suddenly discover how empty his chest ached at the thought of returning down the gradient from whence he came.

“I nigh rightly know,” was his only solemn reply. Rinna’s smile slowly faded with their silence, leaving the crickets to sing for them.

Perhaps the reply was too grim, he decided. Posting a fleeting smile, the young man flourished a bow and bid her well, leaving the woman to giggle faintly into the night.

Zevran’s altruism would surely cost him. He sat before the lockbox and stared at the contents within. Three hundred sovereigns were more than a tidy sum; it was a purse that even his seven years of work could scarcely afford. 

He thumbed one of the elixirs in the corner of the box, an antivenom he read about whilst spying on a merchant. It was the most difficult tonic he had yet made, the recipe yielded from a stolen book, alongside a tincture he created to ward off infections. Interestingly, the book noted that the venom was required for its own antidote, and the Daedric soon found himself prowling the desert brush in search of the dark silver body with a wide, flat head, all without suffering its bite of course. His hunt was unsuccessful, but it turned out that the Rivaini sailors appeared to worship the serpent, collecting them into capped pots and only taking them out for show. It was a Rivaine tradition to dance with them during the winter festivals; the Dally Rattle as it was locally called. Those who were able to charm the snakes were held in high esteem. Those who did not claimed a far less appealing reward. 

After another visit to the Nevarran brothers, Zevran was led to a shady corner of Dockside where all manner of drift was traded. An elderly man scrutinized Izeek from within his tattered cloak as he presented the Daedric man like a gift, and suggested he might have what the pair was looking for. He retrieved a pot, opening the heavy ceramic lid to reveal a pile of miniature serpents, all coiled together in a woven heap.

“Reach in and take the one you want,” he said, his gravelly pitch slurring the statement into a drunken hum. Izeek taught Zevran the common Rivaini tongue years before, which aided the young man many times over in Tern. Both men raised their brows in concern before the man shook the pot for emphasis, “They are small. The venom is potent, save for their bite.”

Taliesen would have his head if he knew. Zevran collected his courage and forced his hand inside the container. The hoary skin was smooth against his fingers, and as quickly as he could, he pulled one up by it’s backside. The body curled, a collective rattling echoing from below, and three other coiled bodies came up wrapped around his wrist. Immediately, the elderly Shem snatched at the head of the snake, allowing Zevran to lax his grip and the remaining creatures to fall back into the pot.

“Nigh kill it,” the young man urged. He would need it alive to prepare the elixir. By that evening, Zevran sat in his attic space inspecting the ceramic pot, gifted with his purchase, before glancing at a second wooden box beside it. Gingerly, he opened the crate and upended the vessel unceremoniously, watching from the edge as the tango between serpent and rodent ensued. One strike was all he needed, and the moment the snake lunged, Zevran beheaded the creature with his dagger before retrieving the head and glass bottle to quickly extract whatever remained. The poor stunned rat twitched below, and the young man spent the remainder of the evening draining the saliva and blood into separate jars, all according to the notes within the book.

In hindsight, he could have simply fed the rodent the poison, and Zevran chided himself for taking such a dangerous measures in the first place. But, by the next morning, he held up a clear serum with pride, knowing that his efforts might not have been entirely in vain. Of course, Zevran was unsure if the antivenom would work, but Andraste would surely look better upon precaution. Perhaps the sailors would value an option other than death for any errors in their dance, if offered.

A smile crept to Zevran’s face. He would sell it then – The Nevarrans would surely take it from him – and the coin earned would return the desired purse for Rinna, and he would rest well knowing he did a good deed.

Taliesen returned from Rialto, his jovial mannerisms subdued by fatigue. Yet, this did not stop him from tugging onto Zevran’s vest and whispering closely into his ear at the tavern.

“I need to speak with you.”

His expression was somber, and for a moment, the young man wondered if he was caught. For years, Taliesen knew what the copper lantern in the attic was really used for, and for years, he only made small mention of how dangerous his protégé’s hobby was. Oddly, the housemaster occasionally brought offerings to him, notably books he found that the Shem thought might interest the younger. One tome was even authored by Master Naheeme, long before Zevran’s time, outlining a series of elixirs specific to House Guidain. He had no idea where Taliesen managed such an item, but he did not once question his generosity.

Dabbling as a floraesen was very different than selling the product of one, however. Taliesen was at least compensated the benefit of Zevran’s work. Still, if anyone were to know that one such brew left the House, particularly if could be tied back to him, the young man knew there would be repercussions he was less than willing to realize.

Without delay, Zevran followed his housemaster back to the House; only asking once they were in privacy, “Did the errand fair well?”

“Yes,” Taliesen poured wine for both of them and settled himself near his desk with a smile, “That is why we must talk.”

The Daedric man closed the door and claimed the corner of the room, waiting for the other man to articulate his thoughts. He appeared excited despite his exhaustion, and the glint in Taliesen’s steely eyes betrayed the severity of his words, “There is word of another coup.”

“Does Gynn suspect a second bloody march?” Zevran questioned in astonishment.

“If it is nigh cut cleanly.” He nodded, leaning forward animatedly as he whispered, “But, we are advantaged here! This time we are privy to such things.”

Taliesen pulled an item from his vest and set it on the table. Zevran leaned over to examine the long tab of wood, the symbols of nine houses burned onto its surface. The housemaster pointed to edge, speaking intently as he tapped on each emblem, “Gynn believes all of these Houses are involved. Two are Crow houses, and although not transcribed here, Gynn believes the Onesta is even entangled.”

Zevran twitched up, his brows knitting together in confusion, “Why would the Courtesans bother themselves in this affair?”

“I nigh know,” he conceded, worrying his lower lip in concentration before piping up again, “ Zev, if we could find and expose the source of this upheaval before they have a chance to act, this could change the fate of our House.”

Change the fate of their House. Zevran took in the words and understood what they meant. Arnii would no longer be bedmates with the Hounds. Taliesen could make a claim on the skills of his men and assure that they no longer had to lobby among the lower houses at the Vancor each season. His dream of acknowledgment would finally be met.

“What shall we do?”

The Dual Strings were tasked with spying on the suspected Houses, so the Guild Master ordered. They were to find whatever evidence they could and bring it to the Talon’s attention. The errand seemed simple enough, if it were not for the two Crow Houses involved. One was the Cortigiana, the only House left off the list. The second, more troubling to Zevran, was the House of Guidain. Both were eminent, pillar Houses in the City, and if they were at the head of a political conflict, the House of Crows would be forced to either publically back whoever the rogue Talons supported, or risk an internal feud that promised to be far bloodier than the merchants’ occasional parlay.

For the moment, they simply waited. Zevran was asked to locate the Houses among the City, and document those who arrived and departed regularly. Taliesen was particularly keen on anyone connected with multiple locations, for those would be the individuals they would follow. The housemaster also devised that they should search the villas anyone associated with the list, and split up the litany of homes with his comrade accordingly.

So weeks later, Zevran roamed the rooftops beyond the Chantry. He marked the circuit of Houses above the Steps, noting the pathways between Guidain and key suspected merchants. The Houses of Mer and Rocha were attached at the hip, it seemed, as the young man observed the many couriers track back and forth between the estates. House Mer traded in textiles with Orlais, whilst House Rocha staked claim to coffee plantations along the coast from Antiva City all the way to the borders of the Free Marches. He had to wonder why two such houses so invested in foreign trade would be inclined to serve House Guidain, known strictly for the apothecary arts held so closely to the House of Crows, that to utter the thought of a foreign transaction of a floraesen’s wares was considered a treasonous act. 

House Guidain was closed to the public. Even another Crow was disallowed to enter the main compound unless requested. Zevran took pause then. He had to wonder how the old Master was allowed to trade at all within the City. All visitors to the villa came by appointment, as he could recall, offering nothing aside from some of the herbs needed and occasionally coin. The guests and the old man all knew one another, often spinning yarns of older, calmer times. And then the visitors would leave again, only to return for their promised goods a few days later. Perhaps that was his role. The Master was there to serve those worthy of the House of Guidain.

It struck the young man in a wave of euphoria. This was why his housemaster was so adamant against Zevran’s skill with the dark art. To practice a tightly held secret outside the confines of the Great House meant competition, something that no unassuming House in Dockside would ever wish to invite. If Guidain was so reserved, then surely they would strike without question. 

The thought reminded Zevran of his promise and he clutched at the flattened purse inside his vest. So much coin should be held close to him, he considered. He was beyond the concern that someone in the House might steal it. No, he preferred to have it on him the moment he ran into the young maid again. The young man spotted the petite creature the previous day cautiously tracing the thoroughfare down the Grand Mile, off to see her cousin, no doubt. Her silken shawl was wrapped around her face; hiding her beauty away, save for the striking sea cast out onto the bland desert before her. Rinna was so mysterious to him, so enthralling that he risked being pulled under if he were not mindful.

Instead, he chose a more purposeful route. In the evening, he approached the backside of the House he presumed she served and waited for her to return. The courtyard was yet unfamiliar to him. Three stars over a flat plain were bronzed on the side of the villa in golden tile and paint. The front façade was lined with berry vines, a lush green climbing up several stories of brick and plaster. The servant entry was quaint and opened into a back garden filled with vegetables and herbs. The smell reminded him of home as he slunk into the corner by the door and lingered in the darkness.

Several servants came and went without noticing him. Zevran remained stock still until he saw the top of the grey shawl poke out from fire-lit entry, facing the garden. Rinna turned around after a moment to close the door as silently as she could before swiveling toward the gate. Zevran reached out and grasped her arm with one hand, whilst clamping the other over her mouth, covering her cry into the night.

“It is me,” he cautioned against her cheek. He could feel her chest beat wildly against him, and Zevran eased his grasp on her arm to hold her more closely, “There is nigh the need shriek so.”

She was warm and he regretting letting her go. Wide green eyes turned up to him, a stern expression he must have guessed lied beneath the shawl. 

Like lightening, she hit him, pulling down the scarf covering her mouth as she spoke, “How dare you!”

“I deserve that,” he admitted with a smile. His cheek stung, “I have come to see you, my dear.”

Rinna glanced around the entry before turning her attention to her suitor again, “Why? It is so late.”

Zevran chortled warmly as he reached into his vest, “I bring you a gift.”

“A gift?” The word rolled off her tongue smoothly, much like the silk of her dress fluttered in the evening air. Her face softened, scanning the man up and down again with mistrust, perhaps uncertainty.

Zevran plucked the heavy pouch into his palm as though it were his heart. Stepping closer in effort to hide the contents, he grasped her hand and slid the cloth snuggly against her ribs. She seemed to fall with its weight, glancing down at the package before returned to him.

“What is this?” her voice wavered.

“Take it and free your brother.” Was all he said.

His statement was simple and genuine. Rinna swallowed, hesitating, waffling nervously on her feet as though she might sudden flee, her emerald gaze downcast, her head in a meek bow, “I nigh can take this. I must work an honest wage.”

Suddenly, the pouch was thrust back at him. Rinna maneuvered around Zevran to the gate, her pace quickening up the path. 

The man bit his cheek in frustration. She was being willful, he thought. Indignation slipped through his words then, “Yes, and prey tell the years you must work to earn this purse?”

She stopped and turned around, her face hardening as she hissed, “As many as Andraste wills.”

“All the while your brother rots?” He took the opportunity to approach again, his outreach tentative and longing. What was worse for him, that the maid would deny his generosity out of a false sense of righteousness, or that the sorrow and strength in her eyes spoke of epic trials she already bore for another? Zevran whispered softly, “All the while you are forced to work the maid, the messenger, the porter … or something even less noble? And what then? Neh gold is clean, my dear. Neh a debt that lacks string.”

“And what may you?” She returned passionately, “What string is attached here?”

“There is nigh a debt you owe,” Zevran replied. Something within him wanted her to understand. She should leave before she no longer had the chance, “I give it as a gift.”

“A gift,” she nearly spat. “Why would someone as you come to aid one such as I?”

“Perhaps I know what it is like to be lost with neh will or choice,” His words pinned her, Rinna stilling as she snapped her jaw shut and listened. Her suitor nudged closer, a hand on her arm as he continued, “You and I are nigh so different. We are both slaves to lives we nigh desired. Now, I am giving this to you. Take it be gone.”

Zevran thrust the purse into Rinna’s small hands and swiftly removed himself from the garden before the woman could react. She simply remained, bewildered and clutching the leather to her chest, her eyes wide with astonishment and unease about what she should do.


	29. Part Four Chapter Seven

Zevran did his best to forget the confrontation with the maid and went about his routine with the strictest devotion. He had little time to ponder if she would keep the purse or attempt to return it, and he was not in the mood to try and convince another to seek their freedom while they still had it. He was no fool. He understood that many stayed in the City because they no longer had the option to flee. The Merchants of the Steps and the House of Crows owned the sailors of Tern, the traders in Dockside, and the hidden Daedric porters. Rinna seemed so innocent compared to them and that was what drew him to her. She was a flower in full bloom, ready to drop her fruit too quickly.

He continued to follow the networks between the Houses on his list. In all, six houses had connections with the House Guidain. All of them were foreign merchants with trade from the Imperium to Fereldan, and Zevran was beginning to believe that there were dealings between the floraesens and interests beyond the Crows. Taliesen, however, was quick to hush his partner.

“Nigh, keep this belief chested,” the housemaster cautioned, “The last thing we desire is a coup within our ranks, for if it turns untrue, it is our heads they will be after.”

The one House he had avoided was the Cortigiana. A part of him was unwilling to believe the Courtesans were involved. Their place did not belong in politics, he thought. Another part of him understood, however. He knew the Onesta held secrets no one else in the City was privy to simply by the nature of her calling. If anyone were to know of an impending march, She would be at the center of such rumors.

The Onesta was once a beautiful woman. An elderly Shem now, she was the second cousin of the late King Natala, and held a prestigious position in the Royal Court of Antiva. The youthful profile of her face graced the silver ginny. Even the winter festivals held games in her honor as well as a parade of the proud women in her shadow. She was currently married to a Grand Courtier, but was paired with two political marriages before him. As such, her sons ran three of the most powerful Houses in the Crows: House Bastion, House Vela, and House Valisti. 

House Bastion was tied to the Vancor, and there was rumor she occasionally dipped behind the scenes to preview the more notable contracts. House Vela controlled the infamous Velabanchel, the great tower on the southern side of the City that held the most significant of prisoners, political or otherwise. The Crows were particularly sensitive about the fidelity of its members, and all Hounds made a visit at some point in their lives as a form of culling of the lesser from the loyal. Finally, House Valisti was currently the Third Talon and held nearly as much power as House Guidain. Claudio Valisti, the Onesta’s eldest son, was also thirteenth in line for the throne. His singular presence at Court could summon the attention of all the Courtiers such that many questioned if he would one day make an attempt to rule.

The Onesta’s daughters were as just beautiful as their mother and were married to various prominent Crows and Merchants all over the City. Two were married to men in House Guidain, and another was even sent to the Magesterium to become an apprentice of Halward Pavus. She had yet to return, but there was no question that the Great Mother, the Icon of all Beauty, had her spurs secured within the Imperium.

To suspect the Cortigiana was to suspect multiple Great Houses of the City, something that Zevran was quite uncomfortable with despite the potential reward. As he drew the connections, his contemplations slowly began to sour. How was he to tell Taliesen? Was it wise to get involved at all?

The stress of these notions was getting to the young man, and he considered that some relaxation might be in order. Carefully, he separated himself from the Salty Brood one evening to make a visit to Sinette. The Arlethan Courtesans were an innocent batch in contrast to the women he watched for nearly a fortnight. Zevran suddenly now valued the vapid reveries of his paramour. What was one small House in dimness of Dockside compared to the deviousness of the floral verandas up dip?

He touched the silk patch in his pocket and smiled. Sinette was such a lovely creature. She always abided by him, taking great care to see to him whenever the call arose. And he relished doing the same in return. Perhaps it was more than mere affection between them. More than he allowed himself to believe.

“Charm.”

Zevran was in the back garden about to enter the kitchen when he heard the tentative voice. He glanced to his right into the darkness under the porch, a cordial grin fitting comfortably onto his face, “My dear, you look lovely as always.”

Rinna blushed, her headscarf pulled down to her shoulders, exposing her face fully to him. Even in the low light, her eyes appeared to shine. She gave a brief curtsy before addressing him, “I wanted to come find you.”

“If it is to return the gift,” Zevran’s voice lowered into a seductive purr, “I am nigh for it.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before her smooth accent picked up again, “Did you speak truly that you know what it is to be lost?”

The young man considered her words before answering, “Yes.”

“And have you ever desired to run,” she took a step forward, now within his reach, “to forget all this, but for fear you nigh can?”

“My dear,” He was unsure how to answer, but his true concern showcased itself in other ways. Zevran’s eyes softened as he reached up to stroke her cheek. The young maid’s skin was surprisingly soft, the subtle color rushing forth from the contact beckoning him to extend his touch to the edge of her hairline. He asked, “Are you in danger?”

“This place frightens me more than I admit.” Rinna looked to the ground, quickly shaking her head and noting, “I fear for my brother, yet I fear I will neh see him again.”

“Rinna,” Before he could stop himself, his other hand met her face, and Zevran held the maid’s gaze between his palms. This close and he could feel his ache for her burn more strongly than ever before, and the notion trumped all of his common sense. Still, he managed to catch himself, garnering the needed wisdom to calmly advise her, “Go home. Take your cousin with you and free your brother. You are too lovely for this City.”

Tears welled in her eyes and she bit her lower lip before doing something entirely unexpected. Petite hands reached up to clutch at his vest as she closed the gap between them. Her thin lips shook under his touch, all the while Zevran took a moment to reconcile his shock and take over. The kisses were gentle and timid, foregoing the passion thumping wildly in his chest. Her grip too was tight, holding on for dear life as the moment between them ended and she moved to hide her face in the crook of his neck.

Zevran fought to keep his breath calm. Surely she could feel the haste of his heartbeat. Wrapping his arms around her, he offered something else wholly unorthodox, “Come back with me and tell me a story.”

He was offering her back to the House, a strictly forbidden act amongst the brethren. Women were separate from their daily activities, too delicate to spoil with the art of death and guile. But, Zevran wished to take Rinna anywhere away from here, away the Courtesans. Somewhere where he could explore this changing dynamic between them without interruption. Somewhere she could feel less guarded.

Somehow, the maid seemed to understand this and muttered against his collar, “No. Come with me.”

So what should a young man do when a woman beckoned him? He followed, of course. Up the Golden Mile and into the Merchant District, through the iron gate and to the quaint servant quarters near the rear of the House for which she served. Once the door to her room was secured, the young man finally allowed himself to lose some modicum of composure. He reached for her, pulling her into a devouring kiss to serve as his message. The desire was returned and the pair spent many minutes simply embracing the prologue to their dance. She tasted like honey, the scent of her musk overpowering him in a way that Sinette could never measure to. The thought made the Zevran feel slightly guilty, if only because he realized in his haze how easily he could cast her aside for the hope of another.

Their clothing was quickly forgotten, as was her braid when Zevran’s hand carded through the dark strands to clasp onto her neck with a possessive bite. Her hitched breath constricted the tiny moan that managed to escape, and any resolve he had left vanished. The hunger cast onto his heart combusted into a hail of fire. He needed her with every fiber of his being.

And so a passionate affair began. The following morning, any sort of remorse he might have suffered flew by the wind of her sigh as Rinna kissed him goodbye. He promised to see her again when he could, only to return the following night, and then the next, and then one thereafter. He was distracted, miserably so, during the day, tracking her movements from the safety of the rooftops just to ensure she was safe on her errands. And then at night, he was consumed by her very presence. Her smile, taste, her laugh. Her startling wit when they managed to finally speak in ways other than through pangs of longing. 

She confided in him her ability to read some Nevarran from her time at the lord’s manor in Kirkwall. Only a few words from so long ago, but her intelligence radiated once her wariness was tempered with him. So, he confided the same to her in return, only further demonstrating his ability by bringing his favorite book on Daelish history and reading her a story. She shared all of her follies of the City surrounding them and her cousin’s homesickness for the Alienage they left back home. He felt compelled to tell her then everything about his life, why he wished for her to flee the City, managing to save himself from exposing such personal knowledge only by way of protecting her. If anyone were to know, to hear how he actually came by his life in Tern, surely there would be consequences. 

So, he instead weaved her stories of his youth that sounded fantastical, even to his own ears. Small truths masked by one giant omission of the lantern he stored in the attic and all of the years of work and effort and dreams of a different life encapsulated within. He painted happier times and the ease with his profession. How the Crows afforded him things he could not dare to envision, and how House Arnii was like a family, a band of brothers together out at sea.

Rinna took his words in eagerly, comforted in his arms. Her very touch informed him how pure and genuine her feelings were then. And the emotions they flourished within him were frightening. He wanted to convince her to leave still, but found himself less and less willing to let her go.

He brought her small gifts, tokens of affection not too dissimilar from what he might have brought a Courtesan, save for the usefulness of the items. A pin to keep her scarf in place when she ventured onto the road. Better shoes, although he was surprised by the quality of the pair already in her possession. Coyly, she explained that she was well cared for by the House for her services; services she declined to elaborate on. She was a messenger as far as he could tell. Rinna was uniquely beautiful though, so perhaps she served as a token of wealth to those around her. He did not want to ponder too long on that notion either, as an unfamiliar feeling emerged from within the center of his gut then. Jealousy was not a friendly bedfellow in his line of work.

It was not long before Taliesen took notice in the following weeks. Somehow, the older comrade managed to land Zevran on his back with a sparring stick to his neck.

“Are you alright?” The housemaster questioned.

“Of course I am!” Zevran lied, a bit put off by the dust on his clothing. After a moment, he returned a feline grin after with a consoling nod, “Nigh sleeping well, is all.”

Taliesen worried his lower lip, the furrow of his brow slightly causing his pale blue eyes to spark in the sunlight. The younger had not been home in days, sneaking off some time after the Salty Brood met at the tavern and returning at sunrise. He knew his housemaster must have caught on, but the man chose at this moment to tentatively drop the subject with a shrug and an offer of well water.

Zevran wondered if this is what Ren felt when he began his double life so far from the rabble of drunken men at the tavern. He suspected, the Daelish man spent more and more time away as of late, either on errands or simply to stay close to the family he created. Ren’s son would be offered to a House of Hounds soon enough, probably Stil with their proximity to Tern, and the thought alone caused the young man to flinch. There were no other options for him.

Yet, if they changed the fate of House Arnii with the exposure if this supposed coup, perhaps there could be another way. Then the boy could be offered elsewhere more in line with Ren’s specialty as a marksman. He could imagine such thoughts must drag on the older man, so perhaps his only way to help him was by raising the House out of the dirt himself, even if the other would never know the truth of the matter.

Weeks passed and the summer finally waned into a breezy fall. The entire season was spent watching the Merchants and House Guidain with nothing to show for it. Taliesen and Zevran both met the pair of stony eyes, as the Guild Master demanded that they place more effort in presenting proof to their wild conspiracies rather than boasting them for all who dared listen. Foreign investment of Guidain’s apothecary through the Onesta in Orlais and Fereldan. What an insulting idea!

They were nearly tossed off the veranda, ordered not to return until they could provide something of use. The bitter encounter sat poorly with Taliesen, who was content now to take the anger out on his charge from the privacy of his quarters.

“If you were only more focused!”

“Me?” Golden brows rose as he flicked his fingers above him, “I’ve lived nigh more than three months on the rooftops for this quarry.”

The housemaster leaned down, a sinister grimace on his sharp jawline, “You know what I mean.”

The pair stared at each other for a long moment before Zevran gave a dismissive tisk and looked out the window. Taliesen was not done, however. 

“Sinette has nigh seen you all summer.” He motioned down the alleyway, his voice a harsh whisper, “She says you’ve lied a dally with a maid up in the Merchant Distinct. House Daan.”

“What if I have?” Zevran’s responded defensively, meeting the stern gaze with one his own, “For years, I have done everything you have asked of me. What harm is there, for once, to have what I want, eh?”

The answer seemed obvious to the older man. His eyes widened slightly as he spoke, “She is nigh one of us!”

“What does it matter?!” He scoffed, “Ren seems comfortable enough.”

“That is different!”

“Oh?” Zevran shot over a laugh, “Different is she? A Daedric maid, a Daedric maid. I nigh see-.”

Taliesen cut him off with a raised shout, “You nigh should be so reckless, Zev!”

Then there was silence. Zevran snapped his mouth shut and observed the Shem now standing over him. Taliesen’s expression appeared pained. It was as though his friend betrayed him in some way. Quietly, the young man did the unthinkable by acknowledging it, “So that is what this is really about.”

The housemaster clenched his jaw and exhaled, a silent plea to simply let comment go without further rebuke. But Zevran felt his resentment grow, his lips forming a spiteful smirk.

“Then you may find pain to know that I am falling in love with her.”

He heard a strangled grunt from the man, both stilled by the admission.

“Love,” The word was eventually uttered in a hushed reverence that seemed to deflate the energy of the space. Taliesen looked at the man below in resignation, a bitter pill that he knew all too well as he spoke again, “What would you know of love?”

His smirk disappeared as the housemaster leaned back down, an ire turning the paleness of his irises into a clouded pool.

“What would you know of love?” He repeated, “Is that what you believe your mother felt when she left you to a whore house? Or your master when he bought you thereafter? Or perhaps” he paused “perhaps, when you were sold again for what little use you were to your betters?”

The words pinned the young man to the floor. The memories each sentence conjured were of faces he was unsure he could recognize so many years later. From the blank faces of the Mothers that cared for him, to the scruffy beard of the old man who raised him, to the prominent scar on Vinter’s chin, the man who ultimately sent him on his way. Zevran could not help the tightening of his throat or the tears that pricked his eyes. In the moment, he wanted nothing more than to issue a witty reply, a spiteful retort that he knew would earn a physical fight. But, as his chest collapsed and his tongue refused to move, he somehow knew all of Taliesen’s words rang true – how could he have mattered to any of these people outside of the confines of his circumstances?

Taliesen’s expression softened before he straightened himself, and he turned for the door. Zevran only just caught the sorrow in his statement, “You are truly a fool if you believe such things exist at all.”


	30. Part Four Chapter Eight

“Run away with me.”

The plea was whispered into the crook of her neck, his grip bound firmly to her sides. Each stroke of his hip spoke the volume of his adoration. Like poetry, each verse a rhythmic spell. Unspoken promises of something better. He wanted nothing more.

“Run away with me,” he ached with the desire for it. To tell her everything, instead settling for, “Together, we could make the world right.”

Rinna nuzzled into him, turning to meet his kiss; the fervor of their passion mounting, culminating into something transcendent. He burned inside, like the brand marking his back now etching onto his heart, splintering into his soul.

How he loved her.

“Will you consider it?” He pressed again once they both came down from their conjoined peak. Zevran’s heart was pounding with fear from any kind of rejection, but the woman cupped his face tenderly.

Her voice was a gentle salve, “Where would we go, my love?”

“Wherever you desire,” he replied huskily and smiled, “We would free your brother and then travel north through Navarra.”

In truth, he would go anywhere. Anywhere away from this City, away from that House, away from the deadly consequences of his profession. Anywhere that was with the woman he was so hopelessly tangled with. For whom he would do anything. 

When had he become so desperate?

“I nigh can leave,” Her eyes slowly faltered then, a pang in her heart evident in the way her lips pursed when she leaned forward to kiss him again, murmuring as she went, “Nigh yet.”

Zevran would have wanted to question her, but the fact that she would even entertain such an idea sent forth a jolt of elation. Were it possible for the pair to escape – to truly escape – then perhaps he could simply make a new life for himself, the Crows be damned.

It was worth all the risk in the world.

The weeks passed into the balmy autumn and the Great Festival descended upon the City. The streets were once again crowded with games and sundry, dances and parades. The job of watching the Houses from the rooftops was becoming tricky. This was the perfect opportunity for a move within Guidain.

Taliesen was restless and moody. He had slept little, Zevran could tell, and spent much of his time patrolling the edge of Dockside, keen to keep track of his men. The Charm was ostensibly taken to the many betting rings, and every time the young man looked up from under Velnas’ arm, he caught the eye of his housemaster.

The Duel Strings were seemingly out of tune, and the public perception of such was grating on the younger of the pair. Taliesen no longer arrived at the tavern in the evenings, was no longer sighted near Nell at the Courtesans. Instead, he spent his days tracking the Houses he was assigned, only briefly crossing paths with his partner to relay what the other had seen in a curt manner and stony tone. Zevran wondered what would have angered him so since the Shem was set to put his comrade in his place. Was it not he who dared to fraternize with someone outside of their sanctified group? Was it not he who was so soundly castigated for it?

Still, Zevran continued to see Rinna, if nothing else to spite his housemaster. And the single act of defiance came with rewards that far outweighed any impending reprimand. They would prattle for hours into the night, post coital bliss, telling stories to one another, and the next day, he would track her among the rooftops on her journey from House to House. House Daan had accounts all over the City, including Guidain, although the young woman was never allowed beyond the outer wall of the main compound.

“Your cousin nigh likes me, I think.”

Rinna smiled and turned coyly to her lover, “My cousin nigh knows you well, my Charm.”

“Hmm,” he conceded with a nod, tracing a finger languidly down her cheek, “But, the stares she gives me – they are like a snake!”

“Coiled and ready to strike,” she giggled, “She nigh trusts you with my heart.”

“So I have your heart, yes?”

“It is mine to give.”

He was living in a perpetual dream. Her words echoed within Zevran wherever he went. No longer interested in the Courtesans or the tavern, he would instead find ways to be away from the Salty Brood every moment he could. The return was now a harsh reminder of the mire in which he dwelled.

He suspected the others knew he found due elsewhere, although no one was mad enough to call him out. Cerelus would give a cheeky grin whenever the Daedric man managed to make it to the games, simply gifting a drink in honor of his friend. Even Nabul discretely offered a package of herbs from under his sleeve one morning when Zevran appeared during his routine errands.

“Nigh wish to sully good fortune in a place such as this.”

It was sound advice from one trapped servant to another. After all, it was the mistake Ren made, and now the Daelish man must see his son be passed to the Hounds by the end of winter.

Zevran wondered how Sinette and the other Courtesans dealt with the consequences of their profession, but chose not to think on it long. He felt a little guilty to have abandoned her still, although his peace offering to escort her to one of the colorful parades in the Merchant District just as easily pleased the woman. She seemed to understand, all to the bewilderment of the young man, as she hung onto his arm and pointedly ignored the silent awkwardness.

One day, early into winter, Zevran returned to the House after his morning errands to the scowl of his housemaster.

“I need to speak with you,” Taliesen stated flatly, turning to saunter up the landing to his quarters.

The young man followed, as always, to his little corner of the room. Impatience was already nipping at him when the housemaster deigned to speak again.

The Shem rounded on him, “That dally of yours is nigh one you can trust.”

Zevran knit his brows together and glared at the critical hand extended at him, “Feh, she nigh knows of this House or my errands!”

“That nigh matters, Zev!” He countered. Taliesen lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial level, “She is involved in our chase.”

“That nigh can be,” the younger scoffed, “I know where she goes.”

“Oh you do? All the while you are at the betting ring or on your morning errands or doing as instructed and scanning the rooftops?” There was a tense pause between them before Taliesen continued, “Just this morning, I saw her enter the North Gate with a letter in hand from Guidain. She was travelling alone-”

“And how do you know this?” Zevran interrupted.

“I followed her after you left her side this morning.” The housemaster clenched one of his fists in restraint, his teeth grit under a sneer, “Nigh long after, she made her way to House Guidain and then followed the cobbled path to the North Gate.”

“So?” Zevran’s voice picked up volume, “Many porters follow that path to and from many Houses. I track at least six daily from Guidain alone!”

“She nigh works for Guidain.”

“It nigh matters!” The younger shouted as he outstretched his arms in an attempt to catch his confusion. Flustered, he motioned heatedly at his friend, “You see dire things in simple tasks!”

Zevran made for the door only to be stopped by the tall, narrow body of the older man. He shot a warning glance as he backed into the center of the room again.

Taliesen retrieved the wooden tablet his makeshift desk, “I’ve followed her throughout the City since this affair of yours began,” Taliesen’s face was searching, now seemingly frantic to convince his comrade, “I know I have seen her at all of these Houses and at Guidain. House Daan nigh offers service to five of these Merchants!”

The young man scoffed and yet again approached the door, snapping as he went, “Why are you telling me this?”

“To protect you!” Taliesen whipped around, shouting down the hall, “Open your eyes, Zevran!”

“Oh, I have!” The young man stopped in his tracts, a glare cast in return to the housemaster. For a moment, it appeared as though Zevran might let the warning go, but instead he felt the need to hurt his friend, “Would you like to know what it is I see?”

Taliesen’s eyes hardened, the pair confronting each other, preparing for an impending duel.

Zevran’s words dripped with venom, “I see a man so mired by his own regret that he would rather bar another from having what he desires most.”

The pair was not seen together again until well into winter.

It was difficult to dislodge the bitterness in the young man’s throat. After all he had endured and managed to turn to his favor over the years in Dockside, he could not shake the cynicism of his housemaster. Were the shrewd behavior not so jarring, perhaps he would have questioned if the source of Taliesen’s ire were out of jealousy rather than grief alone, for he was never able to find due with the one he desired. His entire life was ripped from him just as it was about to bud, and the young man could imagine a scenario where the older was simply endeavoring to protect him from some same hurt. Yet, the certainty in his voice and anger behind his actions caught Zevran off guard, much like their brief interlude nearly two years ago so deeply shocked him. The fondness, and to a certain extent the privilege, given to the protégé of House Arnii was never one of pure merit.

Zevran could not allow this to go on, and from that moment he chose to keep keen to his task, foregoing the festivities culminating to Santinalia with the Salty Brood all together. And for the first time since falling for the maid, he chose to steer clear from Rinna until this errand completed its course.

Their final evening seemed the most passionate as he lied and said he would be away until the end of winter. He would bring her a promising gift if she would only wait for him. She giggled in return and kissed him deeply.

From then on, Zevran’s daily errands seemed bland without anyone to wake with. His mat was hard against the wooden floor, and his food tasted stale. Keeping watch on the Cortigiana was boring, as no conversations of note ever passed through the beauties’ lips. The young man found himself wishing that, if only just once, he could get close enough to House Guidain to hear whatever he needed and end this charade. Politics within the Crows was exhausting.

Taliesen, for his part, keep keen to his task as well. Daily, they met to retell of what they saw before heading back to the rooftops for another night of stalking. They rarely spoke otherwise, so it was a surprise when the housemaster yet again called the younger for a meeting in his quarters.

“We have what we need,” was all he said.

The young man sauntered to his corner; his interest peaked when he noticed a tan linen satchel lying squarely on the desk.

“What is this?” Zevran questioned.

Taliesen chewed on his lower lip roughly, his profile focused toward the opposite wall, “It’s the purse from that dally of yours.”

Zevran snapped to attention, “You robbed her?”

“I nigh robbed her!” The older spat, his blue eyes wide with blame he was unwilling to voice. Crassly, he waved at the low table, “Have a look at what you find.”

Tentatively, Zevran lifted the cover on the satchel, his blood running cold the moment he saw the smaller bag of coin, still wrapped tightly with twine. With it was a stack of sealed letters and another, smaller sack.

“Is that nigh suspicious to you?” Taliesen prompted after a moment of silence, “Look in that satchel! There must be several hundred gold there alone!”

“Three hundred sovereigns.”

Taliesen was about to go on, but was stopped short by Zevran’s calm reply. 

“How do you know this?”

The Daedric was still staring at the purse, finally reaching into satchel to pick at the creased envelopes. One letter was already opened, and something in his stomach lurched then.

Zevran gave a side-glance to his friend, “Because I gave her the coin.”

There was silence and then slowly, the word tumbled out, “What?”

He turned and faced Taliesen, “I gave her three hundred sovereigns to free her brother from a debtors prison in Kirkwall.”

“And how did you come by all that coin?” The question was a sullen whisper, another accusation all its own.

“It nigh matters.”

“Maker mark me, it matters, Zev!”

The harshness of housemaster’s roar caused the young man to flinch against his will, and he winced in spite of himself. For the moment, Zevran could not bare to look his friend in the eye, so there was a brief relief with he felt Taliesen pass him for the table, pulling out one of the letters before thrusting the folded envelop into his face.

“You read this,” the housemaster hissed, his breath harsh through his teeth. The pair made brief eye contact as the younger took the parchment.

Zevran’s chest constricted at the graveness of his expression. Pulling the edges back, he examined the delicate cursive. The wax seal contained the fine profile of the author. The stamp near the header revealed that the recipient was a member of House Guidain. As the script unfolded, it was like ice showering him from within.

My Dearest Ronaldo,

I trust my words find you well. We have kept our bargain safe within the passages of these walls, but time is nearly at hand. Nell has sent a gift to the House of Daan. Meet with Courante de Rosso to retrieve it on the eve of Santinalia. You will find the purpose of our mission quite evident then.

With Andraste’s Blessing,  
Onesta Flourina Catarina Dea Agnes of Valisti

“Maker, Zev,” Taliesen muttered as he began to pace the small enclosure as his partner read. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he raked long fingers through his tousled hair, “There was neh a brother to save.”

Zevran blinked, confusion and dread welling within him, “This nigh can be.”

“But it is!” The housemaster jabbed at him coldly, referring back to the satchel, “And it is our gold in her possession!”

He pressed again, “She nigh can know about an impending march, Taliesen! She neh knows of any of this – she is simply a porter! She nigh can read a leaf!”

“Oh!” Taliesen cry was filled with a mocking bitterness, “And you believe all the sweet things she says, do you?”

“Taliesen,” Zevran tried to remain calm, refolding the letter and returning it to the satchel, “she may be unwittingly supplying these letters, but she nigh knows a thing. I stake my life on this.”

A silence stunned the pair as glacial blue eyes bore into the warmth their amber counterpart. Slowly, the housemaster approached his charge to make his point as clear as he could, “You are blind, my friend. And this endeavor will ruin us.”

Taliesen grabbed the bound parcel of gold and weighed it carefully in his hands. When he met Zevran’s gaze again, his words were cloying with emotion, “This gold nigh can be tied to the House of Arnii. Gynn will believe we are part of it. He will kill us, and everything I have worked for will fall apart.”

It was about perception. Whether the girl was involved or not did not matter, Zevran suddenly realized. And the notion struck him hard in the gut. The young man looked to the parcel and back at the housemaster again, all the while wishing she had simply taken the gift and left. This City was going to destroy her. It was an omen willing to devour his soul as easily as it would twist all of their fates. If they were connected to the plot in any way, the House and all of their brethren would suffer. But the price to keep The Salty Brood beyond the blade, to give them their promised reward by exposing the greater plot… bile threatened to rise in his throat.

“Do you understand me, Zevran?”

Taliesen’s expression was testing, anguished and desperate. Would he kill his friend if he disagreed? Attempted to find another way to fix the mistake while also saving his love’s life? The young man did only what he could in the moment.

“What must we do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Ugh. This was a very, very difficult chapter to write. Sorry for the long time to update! I have been under a lot of stress at work for the last couple of months, so writing has taken a back seat. I am also nearing the climax of the story, but that did not happen. Just want to get this out and thought the end is a suitable breaking point. Anyway, let me know what you think!


	31. Part Four Chapter Nine

They were to find Rinna and question her, so Taliesen said, and Zevran had little choice other than acquiesce. Immediately, they made their way through the crowded streets of the Merchant District, climbing the Golden Mile until they reached a side alley in the direction of House Daan. The housemaster found an unused stock house and informed the younger he would wait for his return.

Cheers abound in the streets as torches passed, streaks of light flickering between the small closes like scintillating beacons. A river began as mere candles lit from the entry of every home and eventually merged into larger and larger wax pyres until they made their way to the shore, where the fires were to be doused into the sea. The hum of the Chantry echoed off the cream stucco walls and painted banners. The blessing for the New Year was fast approaching.

Zevran entered the garden and waited. He knew his lover would be near, but desperately hoped that she was away on an errand or enjoying the scene before her. Carefully, he opened the door to the kitchen and entered, blindly locating the small room and letting himself in. There, on the bed, she sat. Rinna’s auburn hair flowed over her shoulder, hiding her profile as she twisted to the sound. Her eyes were brimmed with tears. His gut clenched.

“Zev!” She whispered, her voice horse from her sobbing, “All of it, I am ruined!”

He would comfort her were it not for the inner voice screaming at him to flee for what he was about to do. She had been robbed and he was the reason. Quickly, he was at her side, his arms around her small frame, his face buried into the soft waves of her hair.

“Nigh fear,” he breathed and the lie shuttered her whimper, if only for a moment.

“What am I to do?”

“I know someone who yet may help,” he hushed her, “Come with me.”

To his surprise, his fear, he felt her curl into herself, and only a muffled a response escaped, “I nigh should. I was told to wait here.”

“Ignore it!” He demanded, squeezing her shoulders as his heart ran cold, “It would be better to come with me.”

A moment passed before either of them moved. The young woman eventually stifled her tears enough to nuzzle into her lover’s neck and right herself before him. 

“You must think me a fool,” she shyly offered after a moment, patting her cheeks with the edge of one sleeve.

“This city is wrought with danger, my dear,” Zevran replied with a grim smile, aching to reach out and touch her again. “My only hope is to shield you from such wayward harm.”

Rinna nodded as she shakily stood and donned her headscarf and cloak. As silently as they could, they exited House Daan and made their way into the back alleys of the Merchant District. The echoes of the mob’s merriment rang off the walls of the narrow passage, and with each step they took, a pang of alarm erupted within the young man.

They were to question her in private, or so Taliesen said. But Zevran knew this was a ruse. If Rinna was caught already with letters in hand of some sinister act, no matter how implied, her guilt was fixed by association. And Taliesen’s response would be his death knell. Would Zevran defy his housemaster in order to endorse her innocence? Was he truly willing to risk death for her?

Yet, there was another thought that attempted to wrap around his neck in an effort to strangle him. Perhaps, in all of Taliesen’s warnings and anger, he knew something the young ward did not. What if he had missed some important fact in his hopeless infatuation with the maid from Kirkwall? If Rinna did indeed have a hand in an impending march, would he still remain so steadfast to her? His chest tightened at that, and it was all Zevran could do to place one foot in front of the other on their path to the abandoned stock house.

Almost abruptly, they stopped. Zevran grimaced at the insecurity in his voice when he reached for the faded, wooden frame, “We are here.”

“Finally,” The man on the other side of the door cursed, and the light that flooded Zevran’s face showed Taliesen how utterly conflicted he was. Behind him stood a hooded figure and the housemaster scowled, “So this is your dally.”

Zevran transfixed his glare, but stepped aside, forcing the young woman to move forward when the entry closed behind her. Rinna clutched her shall over her face as she lowered her hood, fear palpable as she peered around the empty space, save a table in the far corner and a fire lit within the dilapidated hearth.

Taliesen removed the satchel from his shoulder and threw it to the ground in the middle of the room as though it were all the evidence he might need, “You know what this is.”

Immediately, Rinna lunged at the linen, pulling it forward in disbelief. Glancing inside, she then looked up, a smile flitting across her sharp features, “You found it!”

“Aye,” The housemaster responded, tilting his head as he leaned over slightly, “I was the one who took it from you.”

“But why?” The woman’s voice was so small and she turned to Zevran, a crease in her brow.

“Come now, you know why!” Taliesen would have none of it, “Confess and this will be over quickly.”

Rinna looked between to the housemaster and back to her lover hesitantly, “I nigh know-”

“You have been caught!” Instantly, he was upon the woman, lifting her onto her feet by her shoulders with a single, solid push. Her cry of anguish filled the room, and Zevran had to force himself against the wall to keep from retaliating. The boom of Taliesen’s rage was as formidable as his sword when he wished it to be. The housemaster’s steely gaze fell on the maid, his grin toothy, deadly, “Now, my dear, you will tell us who you are and how you truly found yourself in Antiva City.”

Only the hastily drawn breath of the woman below him filled the room for many minutes. Taliesen withdrew his foreboding presence as quickly as he initially encroached on her space, though the severity in his posture never abated. And for once, Zevran remained stock still, words lost in his throat of a witty retort or a cautious musing. All eyes rested on Rinna, who had only begun to regain her composure.

But words slowly did form, and they were ones he did not wish to hear, “I came to find my father’s family, and to claim what is rightfully mine.”

“Your family,” Taliesen nodded knowingly, for a moment kind as he gestured on with mock praise, “And do tell, who is this family?”

“My father was a wealthy lord,” she began, lifting her chin in effort to hide whatever shame she may possess, “His name was Estafan, and he hailed from Antiva. That was all my mother told me before she died.”

It was Zevran’s turn to question, “Was there nigh a brother, then?”

“No!” she cried, whirling around in horror, “Sha‘lem lies broken in a debtor’s noose – Neh coin I give is enough! I came here to find purchase to free him. When the Onesta approached me-”

“The Onesta?” Zevran interjected, his heart thudding in his chest.

But Taliesen stopped him from continuing with a smooth motion of his hand; his smile gone, replaced with a hard intensity as he stared the maid down, “Go on.”

Rinna swallowed thickly, clutching at her shawl, “When the Onesta found me with Nell, she promised to find my father’s family if I but porter for this House.”

“And do you know what is within the letters of this purse?” The housemaster lifted the linen satchel, a deadly glint in his words.

Rinna shook her head, “No.”

A tense silence befell the room.

And then.

“Lies!”

“Taliesen!” Zevran snapped, caught between the ire of his housemaster and the shock of his lover. 

“I nigh lie!” Rinna’s eyes widened, “I came here only to find my family and free my brother, I swear it!”

“For months, you have walked the City, porter to nine Houses,” The craze in the Taliesen returned as he leaned over her, “For months, you have delivered treatise to and from the North Gate!”

“I only follow my duty!” She exclaimed.

“Tell me, what was in those letters?” He demanded in turn. When she shook her head, he continued, “What, little fennec, have you seen?”

“Neh a thing!”

Within a moment, he was on Rinna again; long fingers of one hand cupped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “There is a gift to be received by the Courante de Rosso tonight at the House of Daan.” The tip of his dagger grazed her neck as Taliesen reinforced his words with intent, “It is nigh wise to play with your betters. Now, tell me of this gift.”

The shallowness of the woman’s breath stopped briefly as the column of her throat came into contact with the blade. Tears began to streak down her cheeks in earnest as she shook her head again and whispered, “I nigh know.”

The tone was low, accusatory, muttered into her face with a sneer, “You lie.”

“Taliesen, enough!”

Finally, Zevran mounted the courage to push away from the wall and close the distance in the small room. Yet, he stopped short of intervening with the housemaster’s grip as the blade inched higher in an ominous pose. Taliesen’s glare flickered up to his partner for only a moment before he wrenched the girl’s face toward him.

“Look carefully, my friend,” the housemaster’s voice was filled with some hidden knowledge as he glared at the younger man. “Here lies the source of what blinds you.”

He was stunned. Before him stood his closest friend and lover, together in a deathly embrace. Rinna’s expression shown that of terror, her shall discarded, her silken hair now damp with sweat. An emerald sea beseeched him to intervene, and oh, but he would have were it not for the grave, penetrating gaze of his mentor. The grim line of his lips, the stubble of his chin was stark in the fire, and shown that of a different kind of terror. One that Zevran had little desire to challenge.

“We can speak of this neh with threats,” Zevran replied as calmingly as he could, a warding hand meant more for the lady than the housemaster. “Let her go.”

But Taliesen was not easily swayed. Instead, he swiveled behind Rinna, his grasp on her chin now fisted into her hair as he pulled her close, the blade pressed against her throat. Her cry was a cut all its own, and Zevran unconsciously reached for one of his daggers. A standoff would surely ensue.

A stilted moment passed before the housemaster spoke again, his deep voice rumbling through his captive in trembling waves, “Tell me, Zevran, have I ever led you astray?”

His fingers wrapped around the handle of his blade, and Zevran felt the scabbard scrape his backside.

Taliesen continued anyway, “So many years I have endeavored to foster your chance, to show you the way. Neh - to give you what you would have been denied in the end!”

And it was the truth that he uttered. The housemaster was the one source of his survival over the years, despite any reprisal he may have suffered. The dark scowl of Ren, the scrutinizing musing of Gynn, the permanent scar gifted to him by House Stil. His role as protégé of House Arnii was never one of merit, rather born out of trade. A favor for someone, somewhere, and the notion broke his heart as much as it enraged him.

“What an awful Hound you would have become, nigh the sense so fresh from the comforts of your young life, they would have killed you were it nigh for the few who know,” And Taliesen was not beyond reaffirming this fact. Yet there was another underlying truth Taliesen would not so openly say. Zevran’s true skill, after all, was not that of a swordsman, or a thief, or an assassin. His true skill manifested in tiny bottles, the contents of which were proffered from a polished, golden lantern carefully hidden in the attic.

“Would you see all that effort wasted for this dally? Such sweet deceit?” The housemaster took the time to whisper the words into her ear, and Rinna’s silent pleading was renewed. His glare returned to Zevran, only now his words were more insistent, “Here in lies your death – all our deaths – if you yet refuse to see your way!”

“Please!” She exclaimed, “Help me!”

“Dispose of her,” he demanded. “Dispose of her, I beg you.” 

“No!” Both responded in unison, and the young man took a step back in effort to balance himself.

“She will ruin you!”

“Please!” She implored, her breath frantic as she grabbed at the housemaster’s arm, “Nigh do this, love! Please!”

“It nigh must end like this, Taliesen!” Zevran desperately shot back, “Surely you can see.”

“But it does!” His voice roared again, “It is our gold she carries in this pack! She is your lover. Gynn will see the plot, and neh the outcome, neh her whispered innocence will separate you from their errand, and all that I have done – all you have done – will be ended!”

He did not want to believe it, and Zevran steeled himself for the impending fight. The action only spurred the housemaster on, his voice now equally anguished, “Is that what you desire! Unsheathe that sword, and all your effort for a legacy will be forgotten on a whim. Is she truly worth it?”

“Please!” Her whine filled the room, and the silence that followed made clear what the young man would do.

“Nigh force my hand, friend,” was his final warning.

“Neh,” Taliesen word was light as a breath as he creased his brow, “It is my hand you have forced, it seems.”

And with that, the knife slit her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In DAO, Zevran tells a rather different perspective of the death of Rinna to the Warden, and I’ve been struggling to figure out a good way to tell it while still holding to canon. I recognize that I’ve already spun slightly off canon by having Rinna not in the crows proper to begin with, but then, I also hope you realize that I’ve woven women in the crows by associating them with the courtesans exclusively. There is a bit more to this arc that will come out in the next segment though, so hopefully it will bring everything back full circle. I always saw the death of Rinna as being the breaking point between Taliesen and Zevran’s friendship, and in the end, I think I focused on that more than whether Zevran really would spit in his love’s face as she died. I can’t imagine him being that callous for how sensitive he comes out in the game. Anyway… review?


	32. Part Four Chapter Ten

Taliesen waited until mid morning before electing to drag Zevran from his perch high in the attic. The young man had not slept or moved from the vigil over his makeshift desk; a single candle lit within the copper lantern the lone cue of his folly. 

So shocked was he by the housemaster’s actions, that he was paralyzed in the moment. In an instant her cry for help was cut short, her hands feebly gripping her neck to stymie the flood as her form slumped suddenly to the floor. No words could escape as he watched Rinna’s blood soak a path into the worn boards at his feet. Yet, even as the life slowly drained from her refined cheeks, the young man could not pry himself from his spot to comfort her. And in his mind was a whirl of emotion - confusion, disbelief. Regret.

“Her entire life was a lie,” was all Taliesen said before he left his ward alone in the dankness of the storehouse.

It was only after the door closed that the young man collapsed to his knees, bowing before the one he truly betrayed. How could this have happened? For all his effort to preserve something he most desired, his indecision kept him immobile, and from that he may as well have committed the murder himself. Tentatively, he reached out to stroke her cold face, now void of expression and tilted haphazardly to one side. The vibrancy of her emerald eyes remained, however. A haunting enough image, Zevran pushed forward to close them with a hushed prayer.

He would ask to be forgiven, if he could bring himself to utter the words.

The morning of the New Year was bright and sleepy from the festivities over the previous weeks. The pair walked silently along the empty streets, up the Golden Mile and past the remnant echo of the midnight sermon. Zevran felt hollow as he listened to the monotonous tone calling out for repentance in this time of new beginnings, and the pair emerged at the top of the terrace just as the first rung of the bells awakened the City anew.

Taliesen remained quiet until they reached the whitewashed walls and red tile of the villa. A wavering hand paused his charge with a low order.

“You should let me talk, yes?”

Neither would look the other in the eye, their expressions equally strained as they took in the close leading to the entry before them. Zevran managed a brief nod and it was enough to move the housemaster forward. Expected silence from the young man was nothing new while in attendance with his betters, but with all of the recent angst, this was an appropriate reminder.

And so he followed, just as he had done all the times before. The door opened with the petite Daedric maid to greet them, Taliesen pushing past this time, without so much as acknowledging her, toward the stairs that led to the upper veranda. The muffled sounds of voices above permeated down the hallway, and as the housemaster opened the door, it became clear the presence of a much larger audience for their report.

A knot renewed itself in Zevran’s stomach as he took in the menagerie. There must have been at least thirty men in the space, lining the sunny benches under the outer stone archways and among the ornately carved chairs around the broad central desk. Gynn sat in the center of it all, wine in hand as he eyed the newcomers with a knowing glance, a wry grin slowly forming on his round, wrinkled face.

Taliesen, always the consummate performer, already comfortably placed the self-assured mask, where only a moment before was etched with uncertainty, or perhaps even guilt. He stalked forward, his gaze steadfast on the Guild Master before him with a smile of his own as he proclaimed to the group, “It is done.”

Zevran furrowed his brow, glancing to one side. It was then that he recognized one of the men. The long, hungry form of the Hound of Stil was leaning against the wall, and Ignacio’s toothy smirk at such an announcement caused the young man’s gut to lurch. The room must have been the housemasters of Arainai called to a meeting.

But it was Gynn’s reply that caused the Zevran to turn back. The older Shem tilted his head to one side, “And the girl? Is she dead?”

A pause, and then, “Yes.”

Gynn stared for a moment at the tall man, studying him for any lie that may have passed his lips, before turning his scrutiny onto the younger charge behind him. Zevran’s eyes hardened with sudden clarity as the Guild Master nearly sighed his reaction, “Good.”

There was murmuring among the men surrounding them, and Taliesen took this moment of distraction to drop a linen sack onto the desk. Raising his chin, he spun his story. “We intercepted the fair maid with this satchel containing all the treatise between Guidain and the Onesta, speaking in riddles among most things. But very clear is the intent to upset the Royal Court, and the trade amongst the Merchant Houses was an exchange for their cooperation when the declaration was to be made public. The gold there was delivered from Nell to keep the girl silent, I suspect.”

One of the housemasters plucked the parcel of coin still wrapped in twine and weighed it with a hum, “That is quite large sum of gold to keep a maid quiet.”

“Aye,” Taliesen acquiesced, “The girl was at the center of it, after all.”

A sneer reached his lips and Zevran could not help rolling his eyes in contempt. He could not believe what he was hearing. Was this the housemaster’s way of protecting his friend or his house, he had to wonder. All the while, the memories of the previous night were like knives cutting him as sharply as the blade used to silence the cries for help.

“And what our young champion?” Gynn grunted, drawing attention back to the Daedric man stuck in a rigid silence, “Nearly two seasons we have chased this quarry. Surely, such a secret could nigh be kept between two lovers for so long.”

“Women are clever creatures,” Taliesen answered for him with a casual smile, “They use their whims to distract, neh ever more so successfully than with my charge. You must understand his weakness to it.”

Haughty laughter circulated the room, as though this was common knowledge, a joke. A joke Zevran was deaf to up until this moment, and he had to wonder how much of this scene he was truly missing. So long he had spent observing these gatherings from the corners of the room, and yet so many others he was never privy to at all. Perhaps it was common to comment on the supposed flaws of their brethren; highlight potential threats amongst their lessers. Bile was again rising in his throat, and it was everything he could do to keep it down when Gynn’s voice picked up again.

“So are you to say he ended the charade himself?” The Guild Master guffawed, “A man so famed among the courtesans of Tern,” he raised his free hand, “neh, all east of the Veshnee – by his use the very same whims you claim blind him, that he would dare undo his own desires by mere rumor of her deceit? You must forgive any who might find that difficult to believe.”

“Of course!” Taliesen cried, a chuckle forced past his exposed teeth, “I would neh think to lie to you, what with my reputation on the line in the presence of our brethren!” 

The housemaster motioned an arm behind him as he continued to spin the yarn, “He was quite enthusiastic, actually. What a tragedy to suddenly know someone who claims to cherish you has simply used you to their end. You can imagine the anger behind such betrayal, yes?”

Taliesen turned back to Zevran, a hard look in his eyes made harder by the sharp nod beckoning him, “Tell them.”

The young man was barely able to hide how his hands shook in rage, his lips pulled into a thin line, color sapped from his normally tanned face. Here was his friend, his mentor, his comrade placing the blade directly into his hands! With claims that knew all along, was willing, eager to end Rinna’s life himself.

The silence had stretched too long, and Zevran could feel the growing pressure to answer. But wrath was quickly overtaking him, as he again surveyed the room at the men intensely watching for his reaction. He finally settled on Gynn, his voice smoother than he thought possible as he spoke, “You want me to tell you the truth?”

The Guild Master quirked a brow as he sipped his wine, “I want to know how it ended.”

“He tells you that I have blood on my hands,” The young man began, his voice quiet. Soon enough though, it picked up volume across the terrace, “He speaks the truth.”

He chanced an ironic chuckle as he glanced over at Ignacio, who among the others had begun to gather around the Daedric man, “I could tell you that I laughed heartedly, in disbelief, I wonder. Perhaps, yes, I even spit in her face for the farce I have made myself to all of you.” 

“I could tell you I was glad for it, but it neh matters in the end,” Zevran returned a glare to the Guild Master, the sting of resentment with every word, “The girl neh mattered to you.” 

“Zev,” He could feel the tug on his vest from Taliesen, the icy stare to quiet him counting little when he hissed into his ear, “Still yourself!”

But he was not done as he rolled out of his housemaster’s grip and pointed at Gynn, “This game, crawling the rooftops for some unseen quarry, was neh more than a ruse to get at the House of Guidain! To call an embarrassment to what, I nigh care! As long as someone dies or suffers a public shame in the end, you will look better for it!”

There was a sudden hush to the room at such a reprisal. Gynn sat back in his chair, a challenging scowl returned to the young protégé of House Arnii. Taliesen took a deep breath and readied himself to speak when another chose this moment to make himself known.

“Aye, you are right. This was an attempt to get at the House of Guidain,” All eyes turned to the deeper voice from the far archway. The tall man, with a wide, lean build donned a mirthless smile and pushed off the wall to address the room, “You are as astute as rumor gifts you.”

Zevran forced his composure to slip back onto his face as he finally acknowledged the man. The Shem’s smile widened, even as Gynn lifted a wary hand to make an excuse on the Daedric’s behalf, “Eoman, he is rash and speaks out of turn.”

The Grand Master. Eoman Arainai was a formidable man, known among all the Crows as one of the most ambitious Hounds of their time. Risen not from the depths of Tern, but from the foothills of Treviso. His father was a renowned thief, and in a spat over a stolen bid, he was forced to trade his eldest son in exchange for his life. The life of a Hound did not suit him, however, and through skill or luck, the man eventually rose to become a confidant between Valisti and Arainai for the two Grand Masters before him. And now was his chance to bring the House back to where it was meant to be with himself at the forefront. 

Zevran did not need long to figure out why he was the there, but the realization that his verbal retaliation could end his life felt like a numbing prick against his aching chest. The man removed his gloves and allowed the uneasy silence to rest on everyone’s shoulders. On a table to one side, he took a copper goblet and filled his share of wine before offering his thoughts.

“Your anger is understandable, although misplaced,” Eoman nodded to the young man, the others backing away in an effort to give some space. The Grand Master walked forward to offer the cup, and all Zevran could do was stare. The liquid within was a deep red and he wanted to vomit as he took the cup silently.

The man backed away to retrieve another goblet, speaking as he did so, “I wonder how well you knew Rinna.”

Zevran’s breath hitched, and he thought he might choke.

“She told you of her half brother, yes?”

He weakly managed a nod.

“And her father?”

He glanced into the cup, again reminded of her blood draining into the floorboards, and chose to place it on the edge of Gynn’s desk. Whether he did this to truly keep balance, he did not dare question. 

His lack of response was filled by Taliesen behind him, “He was a wealthy lord, or so she said.”

“Yes, although nigh simply a lord,” Eoman confirmed, taking a sip from his cup, “She was one of the many bastard children of Prince Estefan; though, I suppose even she nigh had knowledge of her actual heritage,” he shrugged with a frown, “Perhaps she did. We’ll neh know.”

With a knowing huff, he directed himself to Gynn, “It was the Onesta who spurred this issue – interesting she would pit crown against her eldest son. I wonder what Valisti thinks of all this?”

The question was rhetorical, for the Grand Master likely already knew. Perhaps that was the arrangement all along, Zevran did not know. This twist in the game was making him sicker as he came to understand how wrong he was. Perhaps Rinna was nothing but a toy, and he the unwitting pawn in her ruin for their amusement.

“But you are right, it nigh matters now. And it is a shame,” The unexpected comment was conversational, as though there was no one else in the room to share their discussion. Zevran turned back to the tall man, his blue eyes glinting with some form of compassion as though he was considering all of the alternatives among the clarity of hindsight, “Have you considered, Zevran, that circumstance nigh had to be this way?”

Was that not what he pleaded to Taliesen the previous night? There must have been another way.

“You know, it was only by Taliesen’s quick wit that we managed to catch the rise of another heir before Guidain had chance to show her to the public,” He motioned to the housemaster with a grateful nod. His deep voice rose for moment in exclamation, “What a grand fiasco that would have been! We’d have another bloody march, and with what to show for it? She would have died anyway, and the Chantry would have been high up our arse to baffle to flow before half the City was cold in the ground.” 

Eoman shook his decisively, “No, I would nigh permit another bloodbath on our doorstep. Yet, there was another way.” Closing the gap between the pair, the Grand Master tilted his cup almost cajolingly, “Perhaps were you more … discrete, she might yet still live.”

“Were I more discrete?” The words were nearly spat onto the stone floor before he could stop them.

Eoman snorted and leaned onto the desk, his leathers creaking softly as he bowed his form down to look Zevran at eye-level. His profile appeared deceivingly kind for how stark the truth was that spilled from his lips, “Rinna was half-Daedric, half-Shem. The court neh would have accepted her by that alone, but I suppose that was neh the point for the Onesta. If neh a soul had truly known of her, then perhaps Valisti could have come to terms with her presence in private.”

“But you,” the Grand Master leaned in farther, sighing, “Everyone knows of the Golden Boy of Tern. And when you chose her, you marked her all the same. Valisti neh accepts social philandery with lesser houses. He says it muddles the Royal Court. Neh mind we are confidants of House Valisti, nigh their enemy. She would have been seen as coming from Tern, neh the truth on offer.”

Zevran swallowed, his throat now too parched to properly speak, and attempted to again still his trembling hands, for how badly they wished to grab the hilt of his daggers and thrust them deeply into the man’s chest. He could not believe the words, the audacity that his reputation outpaced him, “You are blaming me for this outcome?”

“I am simply clarifying your role in this game; one that has given a great boon to this House today,” Eoman gifted a genuine smile then and straightened himself to address the rest of the group, “This was the best outcome we could hope for. House Valisti already received word and he is pleased.”

And just like that, the tenseness from the group of housemasters dissolved, and a cheer amassed within the space. Today was good day for the start of the New Year. House Arainai would be given a boon. A boon in exchange for the death of a girl, instigated simply by a young man’s reputation. A reputation that had brought him so far yet now seemingly handicapped him in the eyes of his own House. Zevran glowered at the desk before him, at the Guild Master who still maintained a wary, warning stare at the young protégé of House Arnii. He felt like screaming. Cutting every man down before him until there was no one left.

“I would like to leave,” Zevran knew better than to turn his back now without permission. 

Gynn rested his thick elbows onto the edges of his desk as he leaned forward, a snarl negating whatever empathy the Grand Master may have impressed earlier, “You have made a mockery of this House. You carry Andraste’s luck that you were able to repay the damage before too long.”

“Ah Gynn, he has proven himself worthy,” Eoman returned, this time resting an arm around the Daedric man’s shoulders, “One could say this is his right of passage. After all, he neh knows the way of the Hounds.”

In other words, things could be far, far worse. In such close space, the Grand Master chose then to lean in and whisper into Zevran’s ear, “You are quick to blame the Crows for your misfortune, but what you nigh seem to understand is that this is business, neh more. If I had to cut down every man in this room to save face for House Arainai, mark me, I would.”

A quick slap on his back and Zevran was released. Chatter between the housemasters began in earnest again, leaving the young man to stew in his broiling emotions. He glanced around with growing disgust at this world he never asked to be part of. The Crows were nothing more than ordained mercenaries ruled over by the few and built on the premise of some noble cause that no longer existed, if it ever existed at all. All of it – the stories of the old Master, the kind façade of Vinter, the cloying affection of the courtesans, the comradery of the brethren of his House – all of it was a lie. And he let himself believe it, become part of it, if it meant he could make something better for himself in the end. How foolish, he admonished. How foolish was he to desire to be recognized for something more than a porter rat or a servant, for it landed him nothing but a painful reminder of his role and the futility of his effort. There was nothing for him here.

The Crows be damned.

Overshadowing all of this was the crushing realization that he destroyed the one thing that did matter to him. Her blood still tingled on his hands from where he straightened her out along the floorboards as though she were asleep, and left her intact for whoever happened across her. How he wished he sent her away. He warned her and then took her by the hand to her death instead.

Bile was rising in his throat again, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to escape the stifling veranda. Without thought, he turned from the Guild Master and walked to entry, opened the door and exited down the long hallway. He could hardly hear Taliesen call after him as he swept passed the Daedric maid standing attentively at the base of the steps to the back alley where he lost the contents of his stomach against the wall.

Eoman’s words would follow him for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is not the end of the story, but it is the end of the fourth arc. The fifth arc will continue with consequences of Rinna’s murder, will introduce in a famous DA2 character, and set up the final set of challenges for Zevran. Thanks for reading this far. Review?


	33. Part Five Chapter One

What had he done?

He cracked a dry eye open. It was midday and sunlight hit the edge of his high cheeks through small gaps in the slats of the closed window before him. Distant calls from the merchants filtered up through the stucco and brick facade, and the young Daedric knew he was not dreaming.

Zevran sighed and reached for the bottle at his side. Leaning up against a crate at his back, he jostled the glass before setting it back down on the raised pallet that framed his bedding. He then looked to his makeshift desk, a lump slowly forming in the back of his throat, and for an instant, he thought he might be sick again. The copper lantern remained in its honored spot, the base of it tarnished from layers of extinguished candle residue burned to its wick over so many similar nights.

He would have reached for another bottle, if there were any left.

What had he done? A flurry of emotion hit him and the young man leaned forward into his hands. Recollection of Rinna’s blood gliding toward him on the floorboards, the jeering laughter at his folly on the veranda, Taliesen’s dark stare silently commanding him to restrain himself or face dire consequences.

The image of the housemaster’s long face caused Zevran to lurch and before he knew, the empty bottle shattered against the wall with a bitter cry to accompany it.

_What a tragedy to suddenly know someone who claims to cherish you has simply used you to their end…_

Zevran wanted to fault him. He wanted to smite him, poison him, stab him in the heart over the pain of his betrayal. But it would do no good. Taliesen was as true in his words as a he was with his actions. Rinna had ruined him.

And the only person to blame for her demise was huddled in a corner of the attic, licking his wounds.

The housemaster was at least outwardly concerned. The young man peered over to the entry of his space and found a bowl of soup and bread, long left cold in the morning. For days, Taliesen climbed into the loft to talk some sense into his wayward ward. Coax him out of hiding. He attempted to mollify his friend that the Guild suspected nothing and that this boon was as much a credit to him as it was the House, or the Talon for that matter.

Zevran knew better, though. Gynn spoke as though he saw through everything. He called out Taliesen’s tale as a lie. The gold was his, the blood no less on his hands than on his housemaster’s. But none of that mattered because Rinna was dead, and all perceived damage was undone with her murder. Thus, his life was spared because he managed to save face, even if he was oblivious at the time.

When it became clear that fear over any retribution was not the issue, Taliesen tried to focus on the positives such a boon might carry. The housemaster suggested Zevran’s dream of acknowledgment was at hand. The Dual Strings were infamous, far more so than before. Uprooting a bloody march before it had chance to claim the Court had cascading repercussions too. The Arainai Talon gained immense favor and now held a seat as a personal advisor for Claudio Valisti. The Vancor formally recognized House Arnii under the Arainai Talon, and so Ren’s son was saved from Stil, although they did not yet know where he would be apprenticed. House Arnii was even gifted a heap of gold to repair their derelict lodging as well as repay the Courtesans for their own losses. Nell would be dearly missed.

It was an unfortunate sacrifice, Taliesen supposed. He openly scolded himself for not predicting the Arlethan Courtesan’s involvement sooner, for he cared for the woman as a friend and would have wanted to spare her the misery of the Velabanchel, where all the scapegoats from the most recent political fallout were sent. The comment turned Zevran’s stomach at how shallow this fondness seemed for how easily he dismissed her when it was to his advantage. Biting his tongue was too difficult, but the sting of cheap brandy quashed his impulse anyway.

Taliesen saw the disdain in the younger comrade and the reaction stilled him. Zevran did not care that the House benefited from this farce. He did not care that Ren’s son was safe. He did not care that his betters garnered luxuries from his actions. The young man simply stared at the wall before him and remained silent to all of the accolades.

“What has become of you?” Taliesen bristled, “You’re being ungrateful, you know this?”

Zevran continued to glower at nothing.

“You are still angry with me,” the housemaster grimaced after some pause, “I understand, but she was just a girl, Zev. You must ease yourself of whatever shame you possess, lest you allow this good fortune to fall on our heads!”

Taliesen’s advice was to chin up and move on for the perception of their House. Rinna was surely a beautiful woman, but she was a conquest nonetheless in the eyes of the unaware. There were bigger and better things waiting for him, and he was being churlish to not seize onto it with grace.

This advice was not well received, and for the first time in many days, the young man looked over at his colleague and let the seething rage overflow. The housemaster found himself nearly thrown from the attic opening. Clearly they would not see eye to eye on the matter.

Taliesen was less apt to visit after that, but as the days wore on and Zevran refused to leave his isolation, small bowls appeared near his space. Was it forgiveness in this minor gesture or merely a reminder not to starve to death in all his brooding?

Out of principle, he wanted to turn away the food, but Zevran was hungry and the grumbling of his stomach combined with his growing headache proved too much. His muscles creaked as he pulled the fish chowder into his lap, mulling over the contents with mild disgust. Still he ate, allowing his mind to awaken to more pressing matters.

What was he going to do? The acute sense to flee from this place encased him, but he had nowhere to go. He was too well known to effectively hide in the City, and again the young man was struck with all the obstacles that faced him if he journeyed beyond Antiva’s borders. They would hunt him. And he would die.

Perhaps though, this was what he desired. He wanted out. Slowly Zevran’s eyes were drawn to the wooden lockbox below his desk and he understood. The thought should have curdled his recent meal, but he could not stop himself from retrieving the box and unlocking it. Within was a line of vials, the proof of all his skill. The young man plucked out the poison, a reproduction of the same one he used on the marked merchant prince in Rivaine so long ago, and for a long moment, he held it in the palm of his hand.

If the Crows wanted him dead, he could do them the favor. Such an act would absolve him of his sins in the eyes of Maker too, he considered. He deserved it for what he had done. It was the only logical conclusion.

Yet, it was not the most just manner to meet one’s end. Taking his own life seemed overly simple when the cries of her slaughter were so loud within his mind. He truly deserved to die at the tip of a knife, begging for his life. An eye for an eye, as the Nevarrans would say.

Zevran broke from his reverie and gently placed the vial on the desk. It would serve as a reminder then, for when things became too difficult to bear.

The winter would bring another Vantenii, and the cool, breezy days brought with it the boisterous men of House Arnii home for they’re seasonal reunion. Zevran abstained from joining the foray and only ventured out to replenish his supply in the attic, where he would hole up again for many evenings until he was desperate to return to the street.

Izeek was visibly worried when the young man approached, gaunt and pale in the early morning long before anyone in the House would be awake.

“You look ill, my friend,” The merchant offered, a hand extended in concern as he ushered the Crow over to sit within his stall, “You should seek the Chantry, I think. The divine would surely give you better comfort than my supply.”

The suggestion broke a smile on Zevran’s face. He chuckled and shook his head, “Nigh a nun can save this fool!”

Izeek knit his brow and spoke in a hushed tone, “Nigh say such things. You would be better if you sleep over drink, you know this.”

“If I could sleep,” he replied.

The pain was well hidden within his words, but his friend caught onto it easily enough. Izeek quickly gathered his supplies and squeezed the young man’s shoulder, consoling as he went, “This will pass, my friend. Have faith.”

He would have to show his face eventually; this was clear even if the housemaster was not currently storming his attic with demands. Taliesen would only stand for his sullen mood for so long before he dragged the protégé down from his perch and doused him in the well himself. After all, House Arnii was now, more than ever, required for business appropriate to their stature. And Zevran was one half of a pair, expected to represent in equal measure. The housemaster warned on more than one occasion during his visits, that he was not about to allow his comrade to fall into the mire of self-pity.

So, with some effort, the young man put down his brandy and took to organizing his things. There was nothing to be done with the past, no matter how he wished to change it. Was it not the wise words of a prince that said to look forward and make the best of what he had? Was it not Vinter who instilled in a young boy to think on his feet as his only requirement with the hope that one day he might escape this charade in life or in death?

The evening bells were ringing as Zevran finished polishing the golden edge of the lantern. For twenty-eight days he grieved, in accordance to Antivan custom, and he conceded that he must face the world again if he was to survive it. He retrieved himself and grabbed the slats of the window to close his space for the evening, glancing down among the soot and mud at the residents making their way home in Dockside after a long day of labor. The House was bustling with activity. Taliesen would soon take the stage with an encouraging speech, a soft satchel at his side filled with tiny wooden tokens that spoke volumes for their – his – efforts. The men would be satisfied with the work to be done. They would banter a jovial tune with each other before eventually taking leave for the tavern or a courtesan.

Nothing will have changed.

The gathering was already in full swing as the young man made it down the stairs to the upper landing. He could imagine Taliesen levered on his stool, rubbing his hands together in a gleeful manner, readying himself for the night to come.

“Brothers!” A cheer resounded from the call, “Andraste has looked kindly upon us this winter, and we have much to celebrate, would you nigh say!”

Another cheer abounded. Of course the brethren had much to celebrate. They had a cook again, access to a metal smith, and a crate full of gold, if the housemaster could manage the accounting of it all.

Taliesen released a toothy grin, his blue eyes sparking, “What a time to return home, eh? We are finally where we should be. Better errands for better pay! And neh longer do we take scraps from Hounds!”

The rabble of men seemed to agree and they all held up a fist in gratitude, chanting Arnii’s name for all to hear. Surely this would be a good night.

One of the men at the back caught Zevran’s presence and stopped short his call. The brother next to him took notice and turned back, only then to be caught by another and another until the entire room fell quiet. The young man stood there at the foot of the landing, amber eyes trained forward on the housemaster still caught up in his excitement until he too was quelled into an uneasy silence once he realized who was being addressed. The Duel Strings were broken and the dissonance of this knowledge in the House was deafening.

Zevran made his way forward, and took a place near the hearth opened for him between Velnas and Cerelus. Every man in the room was staring at him, in admiration or caution, he could not tell, but a nudge from the old veteran to his side suggested a collective apprehension, an unspoken acknowledgment that they all had him to thank for such good fortune.

“He yet lives!” Taliesen exclaimed, proffering a nod for good measure to the group, “And here lies our true blessings. Take note, my friends, for _this_ is the path from Hound to Feather!”

Zevran looked down to the ground and allowed the housemaster to continue his performance. The Vantenii was called, each name given at least one token a piece, and the brethren pulled back with smiles all their own. Velnas paused as though he might say something while tucking the wooden medallion into his vest, but instead only briefly looked over his colleague before leaving for the tavern.

Zevran was given nothing.

He should have been offended, but Zevran found himself ambivalent to whole ordeal. Taliesen rarely gave him a token publically during the Vantenii anyway, so he waited patiently as the room emptied, politely declining an invitation to join the men for the evening.

Taliesen too remained behind, hands knuckled together under his nose as he watched his friend from the precarious tilt of his stool. Anxiety etched his sharp brow. He appeared somewhat unkempt; the stumble of his beard grown out longer than normal, dark circles lining his eyes echoed that he too was having difficulty sleeping.

Zevran was the first to break the awkward silence as he peeked up from below, “I assume there is an errand for me.”

Taliesen considered his reply, stretching as he slid off his seat, “Aye, I nigh wished to draw more notice.”

“Oh? You kept their attention well enough.”

The housemaster sighed and from within his vest drew out the ornament on its string. He dangled it before his charge with a cautionary lilt to his words, “You should be calm, I think.”

Zevran smoothly tugged at the token and examined it. One side was deeply burned with the Antivan Shaal, the other carefully marked with the outline of House Barachal. One dot spaced next to a pair. He exhaled through his nose.

“You want me to steal something from a vineyard?”

Taliesen tilted his head to one side, the minute ghost of a smirk emerging, “A two day trip to the south. It would be good for you to get away from the City, no?”

This was an errand for Cerelus! How low did Taliesen think of him to gift him something so simple?

Zevran could not help the snide retort, “Does Gynn desire a bottle of port, then?”

With that, all building empathy was lost. The housemaster leaned over, a bite to his words all his own, “You need to clear your head! Neh can your arrogance continue in this House!”

“Arrogance,” the young man repeated, a hint of a fight about to erupt.

But Taliesen cut him short in a rushed whisper, “Nigh were you the only one who suffered a loss that night. Nigh are you the only one with a burden to carry!”

The harsh expression on his face was countered by a welling in his eyes, and Zevran was caught off guard once again by his comrade’s admission. The moment did not last long, however, as the housemaster straightened himself and readied to leave for the Tavern.

He turned back down with a calm order for what the young man must do, “There are contracts outlining a trade agreement between Antiva and Orlais we have been tasked to retrieve. Gynn’s source suggests they are within a vault near the main house. You should follow with care – neh a person should know Arainai is involved.”

Taliesen did not wait for a reply as he left the young man alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review?


	34. Part Five Chapter Two

Zevran completed his errand quickly and efficiently.

In truth, Taliesen was right when he said a journey away would do him some good. The Barachal House was located among the rolling hills of New Brinsal, a tiny parish just west of Salle, and the winter grapes were in season. Hundreds of local cellars descended onto the leagues of vines to pluck their labor for the following year’s growth. The Barachal House allowed the workers to keep a small share of their work, and so the local communities benefited from both the wine and produce. Winter meant special flavors of wine too, and although they were all too sweet for Zevran’s taste, he still managed to lift several bottles for those who would take kindly to a favor. He could use more of those.

Locating the contracts was simple enough, and to hide any evidence of his Talon’s dealings, he copied the documents’ contents using graphite on parchment. No one would be the wiser.

The young man breathed deeply and closed his eyes as he sensed the hint of brine coming home. It was both a relief and a dread to catch sight of the City. The simplistic nature of his errand and access to fine alcohol was enough to absorb him somewhat; thus, his reality was made all the clearer upon his return. He passed through the South Gate and observed as the serene landscape shifted from the sharp coastal cliffside into a silty ramp, the emptiness consumed by a mob. The stench of vinegar and hay, the shouts of merchants and the dirge of the shipping yard hauling goods onto port.

The House was empty. Quickly, Zevran made his way up the first landing to drop his errand in Taliesen’s quarters, hoping beyond hope the housemaster was busy elsewhere. Today was not his day.

Casually, he knocked and entered. Taliesen was hunched over his small table, no more organized or repaired than before their promotion. He roused from his writing and peered back, newly shaven and clean.

“You returned.”

“Here I am,” Zevran replied. He lifted the cover on his satchel and tugged out the roll of parchment, “I have the contracts.”

“Ah good,” he straightened and motioned him over.

The young man did as told and a silence filled the space. Taliesen reviewed the papers, nodding all the while, and Zevran took the opportunity to make his way to the door.

“We should take this to Gynn today, yes,” the housemaster began, peering up as his partner exited into the hall.

“You are the housemaster,” Zevran turned back partially and answered before the other could get up, “Nigh do you need me at your side for such a simple task.”

The young man could sense his barb stung, but continued up the stairs anyway. He heard Taliesen clamor to his feet, only approaching the base of the stairwell when his colleague reached the upper landing. Escape was most certainly in sight.

“Zev,” there was a hesitance in his voice, almost tender.

And the rawness stopped him from taking another step. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet.

“Are you alright?”

What a ridiculous question, he wanted to say. What should he expect after everything that happened? Rage and agony ripped through him in equal measure, warring for control in his response, and it was all the young man could do to stand still, lips tightly drawn, breath calm.

“I’m fine,” was what he could muster.

Their friendship was fractured and the impact of this rift carried farther than public perception might allow. The House understood, even if no one was mad enough to comment. Velnas was predictably the most empathetic toward Zevran’s suffering. After all, it was not so long ago that he lost Borne, and a part of him still held the lack of compassion against the housemaster for all his sense of duty at the time. Words were never exchanged about the incident that drew the Charm down from his roost, but the Free Man’s presence with a pint of ale and quiet reassurance that this too would pass was a form of solace on its own. He found himself thankful for it.

Lately, Zevran was remiss to leave the confines of the attic, where he spent much of his time deep in thought. Cerelus, although sympathetic too, was far less willing to oblige in the Golden Boy his privacy.

“The Courtesans would solve this problem, right quick!”

The young man wanted to staunchly deny the suggestion, but in a way, the veteran’s words rang true. Zevran owed Sinette an explanation for his long absence. Offering a charismatic smile to hide his growing unease, he took the prods from his fellow brethren in stride. Perhaps a distraction was what he needed, and who better to provide such than someone who knew him at his core?

Under the Orlesian archway, a small group of Arnii men headed. Much like the Vantenii, very little of the Courtesan’s lives had changed. A darkened room, heady music, and beautiful ladies lined on embroidered cushions, all in repose. It was only once they arrived that Zevran realized he had nothing with him to give. He stopped collecting the silk patches from that tablecloth so many months ago.

Word was sent for Sinette. Their companionship was one of mutual understanding, so he might have found her sympathetic to the emptiness of both his heart and his pocket. After all, the Courtesans had lost much too, and the pair of Houses would need time to heal their wounds. Preferably together, if Taliesen had his way.

A hiss sounded from the edge of the room. In the doorway stood a small Daedric, a mass of knotted tweed covering her strained brows as she sent an icy scowl to the newcomers on the other side of the lounge.

“You!” Linne cried as she stepped into the space. The harpist stopped, and all attention turned to the maid as she hauled forth a bucket and summarily overturned its contents on the young man and his brethren.

Shouts erupted as the lounge turned chaotic. Nearly all of the men were sent standing, their weapons drawn. Velnas was the first to clamp a fist into the maid’s hair, her screams feral, her words vicious.

“You!” She repeated in Daelish, all her ire on the only man left seated, “You coward! You dirty child! May the Dread Wolf find you, for all you have done!”

Zevran was unsure what was dumped onto him, but his stomach unconsciously surged into his throat. The smell was wretched, yet he was unsure if his sickness was really due to her words. Cautiously, he dared look to the woman now held with a dagger at her throat. The image before him was too reminiscent, and he nearly lost his composure.

“May you rot in the mire, you worthless vermon!” She spat.

“Stop!” Zevran held a wary hand out and motioned for Velnas to stand down, “Nigh end our day like this.”

“This little knife-ear thinks she can issue threats to any of us!” Another of the men cut in, “Put the pike down!”

“Hold nigh!” His reaction was harsh, and Velnas looked to his comrade with dark eyes before letting the maid drop to the ground, her rapid breath the only sound now surrounding them.

Linne pursed her lips angrily, tears streaming down her face, only hatred turned up to the young man as she whispered in Antivan for all to hear, “You took her from me.”

Zevran closed his eyes and left the established. It would another year before he saw the Courtesans again.

Sleep was a blessing and a curse. Zevran kept dreaming of the last night he spent with Rinna, her soft mane tangled in his grip as he would nuzzle into her neck and repeat his request to run away with him.

_Together, we could make the world right._

She would titter sweetly, her legs tightening around his hips, her sigh more urgent in response.

She would have given him everything; he was convinced. And he should have given up everything for her. He should have seen this coming with the many, many hours following her on the City rooftops. He should have taken her and escaped somehow. He should have taken action, even if it meant killing his only proper friend to save her life. What use was recognition if he lost the one he would share his success with? What was the purpose of all his work when his worth meant little to his betters in the end? The price was too high. And the regret threatened to devour him.

Weeks passed and the internal torture was wearing the young man down. Nearing the end of winter, Zevran found himself in the Chantry. For so many years, he wandered the halls, listening to the steady hum of the sermon. He watched the wealthy families leave as the gates opened and flooded the merchant-filled streets with a river of silken brocade and gold.

_Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._  
_From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._  
_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._  
_In my arms lies Eternity._  
_\- Andraste 14:11_

The bareness of the evening should have given him solace, but he felt emptier than when he sat in the back pew after the Master passed all those years ago. He was barely a man then, innocent and filled with curiosity about the fair City below. How he had changed, leveraged from a forbidden skill he had no right to have. Bitterness coursed through him then, and for the first time, Zevran found himself hating the old man for what he had done. The gift of knowledge without the will to use it was so deeply unfair. And everything he had accomplished to create a place from nothing felt hollow now.

A nun issued the Crow a blessing for his good works as well as a prayer for all his silent penance thereafter.

Zevran eventually found himself restless. For several months, he wrestled with his remorse. Taliesen blessedly left him alone most of the time, either by choice or by duty, as he was called away to Rialto with the rest of the housemasters under the Arainai Talon to discuss their plans for the year. In the past, perhaps the young man would have been invited, an eager pair presented to the group of calculated experience. And even still, perhaps the Duel Strings would have been welcomed, if the protégé of house Arnii could keep his chin high enough. The housemaster guessed that his co-conspirator would be unable to remain collected so soon after Santinalia. This may have been a wise assumption.

And so, the young man wandered Tern and Dockside on the evenings to clear his mind when he was unable to sleep. Life in Tern was rather quiet at dusk for all of the accounts of violence between Hound Houses and smugglers. Zevran was no more in danger here than at the Courtesans, so his pace was leisurely along the boardwalk that separated high tide from the rows of storehouses. As the sun fell behind the North Gate, the sea took on softer hues, the line of russet and white masts bobbing slowly on the calm sea. The merchants up dip were calling for their dinner. The taverns were just as lively as in other areas of Dockside; only here they were filled with a collection of foreign travelers, gypsies, pirates, and vagrants over the Antivan residents next door.

Why were the inhabitants of Tern so despised, Zevran had to wonder. Their lives were not all too different, separate from their origins. The laborers in Dockside were the recipients of Tern’s wares. The spices delivered by boat and parceled together by Rivaini women were used in nearly every Antivan meal. The Daedric porters that served Tern warehouses were even shared with the many Merchant Houses inland. They were a central part of the City. The engine along the coast.

The young man approached the tavern with some uncertainty in his step. The Kilne was popular enough among laborers and porters alike, but the inn also doubled as a meeting place for several Hound Houses. To enter as an outsider would surely elicit a fight.

Zevran pushed opened the door and looked around.

A large, dimly lit space opened before him. The place was busy, an assembly of men crowded around an improvised arena on one side of the quaint salon, roosters being lined up for early wagers. The barkeep was positioned behind a long, broad bench on the far end, and the rest of the room contained low tables with rough looking men, all in various discussion or games.

No one seemed to notice him, and Zevran chose a table far away from the commotion. He leaned back into a comfortable position and took the time to think about what he was doing. What sort of conflict did he want to engage in? Who exactly was he looking for in this dark place? Out of the corner of his eye, the young man noted another approach, the stalky behavior indicative of where he was from.

“A nun walks into the Chantry,” the figure spoke.

“The Chantry burned to ground,” was his lowly reply.

This was not the expected reply, and the Hound remained motionless, quiet, staring Zevran down in an attempted show of dominance. But the Daedric would not have it. Keenly, he looked up at the threat and spoke his peace, “I do what I desire with neh the care. If you take issue, I nigh offer you to inquire.”

The attendant was not quite yet a man, his form gangly from recent growth, his light colored hair still closely cropped and paired with an overly confident expression despite his lack of experience. Zevran’s scanned the room to observe several other darker shapes lining the wall beyond him, and so he rested an idle hand on the pommel of one his daggers at his side as proof of his provocation. He may be alone and certainly outnumbered, but the Dual Strings were known for their swordplay. And even if the protégé of House Arnii lost this duel, there was no telling the outcome should Taliesen hear that his favorite was injured over some petty scuffle.

A high-pitched whistle called from over the young Hound’s shoulder, and he careened back. A wide table in the corner came into view, the housemaster of Stil seated at its center. The sight of Ignacio was not so unusual; he would not have been expected with the rest of the Houses of Arainai in Rialto because his House did not carry much weight. They did as they were told without question, and so the housemaster went on his way, the casual observer in wait for his next command. The man gave a brief nod, and the Hound returned his attention to Zevran again.

“House Stil invites you to drink,” the lad said. Stiffly, he backed away from the rival into the shadows once more.

Uneasiness crept up into Zevran’s chest. The last time he parlayed with House Stil, he was gifted a magnificent scar down the length of his back that took many months to heal. And he was warned that should he show his face again so willfully, he might not survive to tell the tale.

But that was what he desired was it not – someone willing to bring him down? With determination, he stood and sauntered toward the housemaster, a smile broadening on Ignacio’s face with every step Zevran took.

“So, the great Golden Boy of Tern has graced House Stil with his presence!” He announced loudly. The bustle of the tavern was enough that no one spared much attention for them, but the sentiment was enough to slow Zevran’s approach. Ignacio chuckled, “I am surprised to see you here, but perhaps I nigh should be.”

Zevran gave a feline grin of his own, “It is only fitting I should visit now that I have proven my worth, no?”

The response earned a bark of laughter that sent a pang of fear through the young man. Of all the Houses he interacted with through his years in Dockside, Zevran found himself frightened of only one. He wondered if it was the unpredictability of the housemaster’s reactions, or rather the hidden truth behind all the angst shared between them. The privilege given to the protégé of House Arnii was never one of pure merit, and now that he understood the meaning of these vague signals, the young man felt at a disadvantage around them. He could pull off the greatest mark in Antiva, and it would still matter little in the eyes of House Stil for he had not earned his place through suffering or pedigree.

This was simply the way of the Crows.

Ignacio kicked out a chair and slapped the wooden surface, “Have a seat! The barmaid will share a round as payment for your deeds, then.”

What was he to do when the housemaster of a rival House offered him a seat? Zevran sat down, his careful mask in place to hide any trepidation. Ignacio was not the average man in his own right. Much like Taliesen, he was tall and angular in his build. He had a long, thin face and sharp features that reminded the young man of a cat on the hunt. His auburn hair was tied back to expose focused eyes, leaving the impression that very little slipped past the housemaster’s notice no matter the ease of their discourse.

“You must forgive my little knife,” Ignacio motioned to the young Shem that initially address Zevran, “The pup has promise, but he is young and nigh yet knows the approach for friend over foe.”

“So we are friends?” Zevran ventured.

“We could be.”

A pewter cup appeared in front of Zevran and he glanced up to catch the edge of large black ringlets cascading over a woman’s shoulder, covered by a markedly high quality silk bandana. Her amber eyes glinted for a moment as she posed a smirk at him and set the other tankard on the table for the housemaster.

“I wonder what Taliesen would say if he knew you were here?” Ignacio posed the question rhetorically and moved on quickly enough, “A lesser man would hide behind their housemaster after the warnings you have been given, and wisely so. Yet here you are.”

“Perhaps this is an illusion, then.”

“Or perhaps you are as bold as they claim.” He raised the ale in a mock salute, “May the almighty Andraste always refill your luck.”

They clinked their cups together and drank deeply. The ale was oddly cold, but good and Zevran settled back down from his initial reservations. Some of the men unburied themselves from the shadows and gathered after what must have been a long winter of work. Slowly, banter took turns around the table, the youngest among them listening carefully from the side, ever still on duty as he watched the door.

What began early in the evening as one tankard became a second and then a third, and before Zevran knew, he was spinning tales all his own while accepting tipples of much stronger liquor late into the night. They seemed as eager to listen to him as the men at Arnii’s favored tavern too, and for a moment, the young man allowed himself to get lost in the attention. The cheeky gestures he made were heightened whenever he managed to twist a subtle spur onto Taliesen’s caricature. The Duel Strings, more often than not, found themselves in trouble, and it was only through quick wit and a good dose of luck the pair managed to correct their course. But such is the way of their errands, he supposed. The adventures they had together would be stilting if the young man deigned think on it too long, though he was wise enough to omit such details, drunk as he was.

Ignacio gave a knowing nod, swaying a little in his amusement, “Aye, the housemaster of Arnii has always been the first to draw, would you nigh say!”

“I supposed he does,” Zevran acknowledged.

The evening was dying down, and the pair was sitting close together at the table. The housemaster looked over after some pause and offered something wholly unexpected, “I had a feeling there was some hidden quality about you. Nigh anyone would say what it was, though.”

He feigned humility with a shrug, “I am a simple man.”

The response was received with a snort. Ignacio continued, “I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest in your reply, yes?

Zevran straightened in his seat, swiveling to look at the man in eye.

“Did you poison my men all those years ago?”

There was a long pause and the young man felt himself sober up some. The housemaster was clearly inebriated, but that would certainly not stop him from retaliating regardless of the goodwill Zevran gained throughout the evening. The young man offered a grim smile, choosing to lower his gaze as a manner of respect, “What would you do with such information if I told you the truth?”

Ignacio mulled over his answer, “That would depend on the truth.”

The young man mentally began to prepare for the impending battle he should have assumed from the start. Of course the housemaster of Stil would want to know if his men were murdered. And what better way than lure the one responsible into an easy trap. Zevran closed his eyes and readied himself.

“I could use a man of your talents,” Ignacio pondered the table surface before calling the barmaid for another round. Zevran whipped his attention back up to the older man as he inquired, “Have you ever considered placing your skill on offer?”

There was an awkward moment of silence before Zevran erupted into a fit of laughter that filled the room, visibly relaxing the grip on his weapon. Ignacio remained unmoved though, simply finishing his drink and sitting back with a sigh. It was one thing to dabble in a dark art, another provide secretly for his own House, but should Taliesen ever discover his ward was selling to anyone – well, his head would most certainly roll.

“You should consider it, my friend,” the housemaster of Stil pressed, a businesslike manner coming over him, “I have need nigh so much for poison as poultice, you see. I would offer a share for it as long as my knives might survive.”

Zevran eventually regained his composure and looked over at the older Shem. He was calm, his thumb tracing a line along his lower lip in thought, and it dawned on the young man that the housemaster was serious. Their moment was broken though when the barmaid presented herself, a pair of steins in hand.

“Ah, my ‘belle,” Ignacio grinned up at the woman. She returned the kind greeting and set the cups down before leaning on the surface the table. She was dressed to show both leg and cleavage, something only the Rivaini women did among the City with such wonton abandon. Her cincher clutched the edge of her cream skirt above proper boots, and although still thin, she appeared far better fed than most in Tern.

“This woman knows what it means to offer devotion for one whilst trade for the other,” Ignacio motioned and Zevran took a moment to openly observe her. Amber eyes set against amber in a play for control that the young man might be willing to lose were the circumstances different. The housemaster interrupted their unspoken contest with a suggestion, “You should show him your trick, I think.”

The woman side-glanced to Ignacio before turning to Zevran and issuing her own smooth command, “Hold out your hand.”

A charismatic smile tugged at the young man’s face as he complied, “Of course.”

She stood from the table and leaned over, the plumpness of her breasts nearly falling out of their holdings. The distraction was enough to catch Zevran off guard when her grip on his wrist was stronger than he bargained for. She spoke coyly, “Nigh should you move, sweetness.”

With her right hand, she pulled out a small knife one might use to cut herbs. She angled the tip between Zevran’s thump and forefinger against the table and glanced back to the housemaster. He pursed a smile and nodded. The young man’s stomach clenched.

Carefully, the woman tapped, tapped, tapped the knife between each finger until she reached the other side of his pinky, where she reversed the pattern slightly faster than before. All eyes were on the young man’s hand as the barmaid continued to counter back and forth, each time faster, until the Zevran felt he had enough. Gingerly, he pulled back his hand, but the woman’s grasp only tightened. The Crow frowned, a worried expression overcoming him as the she landed the final tap deep into the wooden surface a hair’s width from his thumb, the handle of the knife vibrating with a twang when she let go.

Just as suddenly, her hold loosened and the young man clutched at his hand. The woman straightened herself, smoothing out her skirt as she went, turning to Ignacio with raised brows and an unruffled voice, “There is more than one way to skin a cat.”


	35. Part Five Chapter Three

Zevran was still required for business. With the spring came new contracts, and the housemaster and his colleague were tasked to sort through the many stacks of notices and select which they would negotiate for. Taliesen also had a fresh sense of direction now, owing from newfound tutorship under Eoman’s influence. So together, the pair began the tedious process of which errands best fit with the House’s and Talon’s needs.

The young man might have felt slightly left out had he taken the time to question, if he could even muster the desire to care. Zevran’s absence in Rialto meant he was not privy to new information and rumors about public affairs. The housemaster was negligent to fill him in too, which left open misunderstandings of what was considered important.

Taliesen was at least easing his comrade back into the process, though. In fact, he was all together too caring in his interactions with Zevran, and it was enough to make the young man uncomfortable. He did not want pity. He had little enough time to grasp where to place his anger, let alone how he felt about his friend as a result of the fallout during Santinalia. The Shem’s motivations were still muddled in a mix of stories, and Zevran had to question what intentions the other truly carried. What was the purpose of forcing him to lie about his involvement over Rinna’s death?

The thought of his past lover made him flinch, and the young man dropped the parchment he was reading to place a palm against his tired face.

“It is late,” the housemaster declared, glancing at the candle nearing its wick. They declined the offer to the tavern earlier for the closeted space of Taliesen’s quarters. The door and window were shuttered, the lone candle providing only minor illumination in the cool space.

“We can finish this tomorrow,” he said and Zevran did not respond, instead opting to finish his wine. Taliesen began to stack the letters where they were organized, mentioning casually along the way, “There is to be a gathering for us.”

“A gathering,” Zevran repeated, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“Aye, the Grand Master has received tributes from across Antiva for our recent,” he paused to mull over the best manner to say it, settling with a wince, “ventures. He would like to reward us.”

The young man shook his head, contemplating what he would like to say to the audacity that they might be given a prize for cold-blooded murder, “Nigh am I concerned.”

“You must be, Zev.” There was finality to his words, and the younger looked up to see the graveness in the housemaster’s face. It was enough that all the brethren in the House knew of their troubles, but their strained relationship had not yet caught on with the rest of the Talon. Zevran was merely tending to other duties or minding the House while the housemaster was away, or so Taliesen said.

“Eoman nigh gifts praise lightly,” there was another pause before he continued, “We must accept this with grace.”

Zevran wanted to argue but knew there was nothing to be said. With notoriety came the burden of duty, and the Duel Strings were on a quick path to ascension. Fidelity to their cause was without question, lest other means to were sought to ensure their compliance.

It was ironic to the young man that he should see all his effort over the years, his personal toil, his embellishment of personality and enhancement of his perceived skill – all for respect from his betters – as a waste of time now. In fact, the lack of motivation spurned his resentment further, no matter how carefully hidden it remained.

There was in fact a grand effort between several Crow and Merchant Houses to recognize the pair. The soiree was to be held at House Mele, a famous Merchant House and close business partner with House Valisti, among others. Zevran distantly recalled the villa, as the old Master would sometimes frequent the manor when he was a child. The guest list included Claudio Valisti himself, Houses under his jurisdiction by Royal decree, other members of the Royal Court, select Houses under the Arainai Talon, two Guild Masters, and the committee overseeing the Vancor. There was rumor that the Onesta might also appear at some point in the evening, although the failed publicity of her supposed heir was still too fresh in a few minds. Of course, there was no love lost between mother and son, at least to the public, and therefore, it was only appropriate to invite the Courtesan to such a highly promoted event.

So much pomp and flare caught the Duel Strings by surprise. Even Taliesen was at a loss about what was expected of them when they were called to fittings for a fine set of attire they were to wear when presented before the Royal Court. The housemaster was quick to take the offering with a smile though, and enforced his protégé to stand just as tall. Zevran did as he was told, and although his gut strongly desired to flee the room, he could not help the lax smile that appeared from all of preening and attentiveness afforded to him. It was something he could get used to if he were allowed such things.

Thankfully, they were not required to bring anyone with them, and Zevran’s fear of involving the Courtesans was alleviated. The thought of speaking to Sinette after all of the upheaval to their Houses caused a mix of anxiety and shame he did not know how to process. Taliesen most assuredly would have brought Nell, were she still by his side.

Soon enough, the evening of the gala came to bear. Zevran stood at the verbose entrance of House Mele and pondered what exactly he was doing. He recalled how as a boy he sat at the foot of these very steps and waited for the Master to exit. Only once was he permitted within the outer foyer during an overbearingly hot summer day. The maid even gave him a cup of water. If he tried hard enough, perhaps he could still envision the shadow of that child watching as people entered with a sense of wonder scrawled onto his face. How he pitied that child now.

Merchant homes were elegant places. Antivan summers were oppressive and ranged in weather from the dry early days to a continuous stream of monsoon storms that swept off the coast later in the season. In the winter, the air was crisp, windy and cool. The buildings in the City were often set up to allow an open breeze throughout the entire structure, and the larger villas had open atriums in the center that acted as both a courtyard and foyer to greet guests. The atrium for House Mele was relatively small, but no less extravagant. Eight marble columns lined the edge of the forum, next to each a servant stood dutifully to take cloaks and offer refreshment before guiding the guests to where the actual event was staged. 

For a moment, Zevran felt out of place as he undid the clasp of his cloak and handed it to the Daedric retainer, only briefly making eye contact before accepting a goblet of wine. He drank deeply.

“Careful,” Taliesen tutted in a hushed tone as he accepted his own glass, “You seem nervous, yes?”

“I seem thirsty,” he replied, flitting a bland smile.

The housemaster sighed, agitation slipping through with his concern, “Can we simply take the evening as it is? I’d nigh dare ask you to forget, or even forgive for that matter, but neh is this the place for remorse. Let it stay on the steps.”

There was a plea given, and Zevran nodded only to appease his colleague of any further trouble he might unwittingly cause. The action seemed to ease Taliesen enough as he took a long swig from his goblet and marched forward without another word.

As pro forma, it was customary to be fashionably late to evening parties, which was at distinct odds with how business was done during the day. Promptness of a deal was paramount, but the art of negotiation meant more refined power plays were often at hand. The later the guest, the more important they were, and so as the Duel Strings made their way to the partially exposed veranda, it came as a shock to Zevran how many people were already present. The soft harmony of lutes plucked in the background above the low conversations of the room. The vast majority of the attendees neither recognized, but Taliesen ignored the awkwardness anyway, heading straight toward two familiar figures on the balcony.

Eoman and Gynn both turned to the pair as they approached, the Grand Master’s expression comically countering that of the Guild Master. The young man felt the disdain before he even saw it, Gynn’s frown deepening when Eoman grasped Zevran’s shoulder.

“I am glad to see you again,” he said more to Taliesen than his partner. The housemaster welcomed a firm hand to the shoulder in kind.

They chatted briefly about the state of the assembly. There were many people to introduce them to, particularly among members of the Vancor and House Valisti. And of course the host of the evening, Luis Mele, who was attending to a last minute detail in the kitchen. Zevran kept his line of sight to the Guild Master, who all the while busied himself with his wine and a bowl of olives on the terrace railing.

Eoman was a talkative man. And like any good showman, he knew how to work a room. As Zevran was drawn away from the balcony and paraded from group to group, he could not help the gnawing feeling creeping up his backside that he was no better than a pawn being moved to its appropriate place. His success was truly Eoman’s success, and as such it was a continued boon on behalf of the Talon for which he was contending.

Everyone welcomed the Duel Strings with varying degrees of politeness. Zevran comprehended already that someone who was too polite was probably intending to insult, but he was unsure if Taliesen knew how to read such things. The courtesy was daunting, yet with a stream of wine and music, it was becoming easier to forget the stabbing pain in his heart every time a nameless person mentioned the reason why they were there.

They were well into their circuit when something caught Zevran’s eye. At the entry of the room was a woman, dressed in finery that might rival a courtier. She wore a brilliant blue gown, embellished with crystals that reflected the lantern light like sun off the sea. Her jet hair was finely combed over one shoulder, a cascade of curls held in place only by a massive golden pin on top covered in an assortment of gems. Her caramel skin amplified the shadows along her defined neck and curve of her arms as she stood calmly, taking in the crowd with a knowing expression. It was the hint of a smirk when she looked at him that snapped the young man’s recollection.

“Zev,” Taliesen nudged and he turned back to the matter at hand. The housemaster issued a withering glare when he caught sight of the woman before motioning toward the direction they were headed. 

In the corner, a small group amassed around one man. The Shem was tall and gallantly dressed. The plaits of his doublet wove into a deep red brocade that starkly contrasted the dark sleeves and leather guards that covered his arms and legs. He was an older man, entering middle age, and the etching of his life had already begun to leave their lingering marks around his eyes and mouth. His beard was well groomed, as was the rest of him. Deep blue eyes came alight when he realized who was parting the crowd to join them.

Eoman chuckled as he leaned forward to lightly embrace the man. He straightened himself again with a broad smile, waving a hand across the pair as though they were presents, “Claudio Valisti, may I introduce you to the duo behind our rally, the Duel Strings.”

“So this is the fabled protégé I keep hearing about,” the prince boasted with a tip of his golden chalice. Glancing around their small group, he spoke with their attention in mind, “For a Daedric, you have managed to do quite well over such short years. Neh a passage through Tern neglects to mention your name, Zevran Arainai.”

A blush crept to his cheeks unbidden, and the Crow replied with meek smile and bow, “I can only make claim to what I have learned under the watchful tutorship of Arnii.”

“Well, the merchants seem to sing a tribute to you far better than your House,” Claudio acknowledged, “Quick wit, charm, and luck are on your side. You’ve captured the Antivan heart, I would say.”

He did not know how to respond. To receive such a strong compliment from the head of an esteemed House once was a long-sought dream. Now that he was faced with its realization, he stumbled on his own words.

“Aye,” Taliesen was quick to fill in for him, “We may as well have found Andraste’s ashes to have him. A pure talent to be sure!”

Claudio turned his attention to the housemaster, “We have you to thank for taking him as an apprentice them. Your father would be proud, I think.”

Zevran glanced over and caught the subtle hitch in his friend’s breath. Never had anyone mentioned his family before, and Taliesen was quite guarded about his past. As far as the young man knew, he was the only one who had knowledge of the housemaster’s Fereldan origins, let alone how he landed portside. He swallowed thickly and regained his composure, “Thank you.”

After their initial introduction, the discussion moved to more esoteric topics, and the pair was eventually released from the Grand Master’s procession to mingle for themselves. Taliesen immediately moved to follow after Eoman, eager to partake in the rare opportunity to garner favor with those far above his station. Zevran on the other hand, stood by as he always had done when he attended functions with the housemaster. After all, his role was always that of the wallflower, to listen and recall later. And now that he had the chance to participate, he found himself with little desire to do so.

“You are alone,” a feminine voice called at his side. The evening was late, and the party was only beginning. Dinner had long since been served, and idle chatter was becoming louder as the brandy was opened and shared among the guests. Zevran found himself seated on the edge of the terrace railing, watching the moonrise over the bay. The sky was clear and the bright disk cast a dim light onto the City before him. The woman leaned onto the ledge, clasping her hands under her sharp chin, and sighed longingly into the night air, “What a pity.”

The young man glanced over, “I’ve seen you before.”

“Have you, now?” A smirk surfaced.

Zevran shifted on his precarious perch to face her, “Nigh over a fortnight ago, you were at a tavern in Tern. You wore a blue scarf and knew an rather unsettling trick.”

The woman straightened and turned to prop onto her elbows, her eyes widening in the dark, sparking the faux surprise that flashed across her painted face. The artistry of the makeup did not suit her, Zevran thought. She was far more attractive playing the barmaid with nothing marking her save the tint on her full lips.

She bit her bottom lip and played coy, “And do tell, what trick was this?”

He gave a disarming smile of his own, resting an arm on his knee and taking a sip of his brandy, “What is your name?”

“Rather forward are you, no?”

“If I had to guess,” he considered her attire before continuing, “I would say you are the wife of one of the merchants here.”

“Well considering I am the only woman here, for the moment,” she tapped her finger in the air to emphasize her point, “I suppose you might be right.”

“You are Luis Mele’s wife then, yes?”

“Smart one, you are.” She clapped gently for him with the bloom of her smile, “My name is Isabela. I already know of you.”

Zevran snorted and turned his attention back to the view of the City. For the while they sat quietly, one faced outward into the darkness, the other facing inward toward the festivities. The young man took some time to think about the troubling realization around the woman beside him and how she might know of his meeting with Stil. The best solution was to confront it, he decided. 

His voice was smooth, seductive from the start, “Tell me, do you nigh find it odd that someone of your status should remove her finery for Dockside?”

Isabela shook her head from side to side, the sparkle of her pin scintillating off the stonework. She raised a manicured brow, “Is it any more odd than the great Charm of Tern to be neutered by a woman?”

There was a punctuated silence as Zevran tried to figure out an appropriate retort to such a candid reply. The brandy was halted halfway to his mouth when he finally glanced down at the lady still staring into the salon.

He was tired of hiding his anger for the evening though, and Zevran put the chalice down, his refined face closing off into a sullen scowl, “What do you know of it?”

“What they did was wrong,” she said, her expression dull as she turned up to the young man. Her tone was just as flat, “Neh, anyone here would say such, but it is the truth.” 

“The truth,” Zevran said lightly, a huff escaping him and spoke out into the night, “The truth says I killed a rouge heir aimed at upturning the balance of our fair City in the name of my House.”

Hearty laughter filled the air, and the man jolted off the railing, his drink tipping over the edge. Zevran winced internally when the glassware landed onto the stone terrace below with a resounding crack. No one inside seemed to notice, though, and Isabela looked over the edge into the vines below before glancing back at him, “Oops! Oh kitten, neh a porter believes that yarn! And it neh matters anyway.”

Zevran bristled, “Who are you to make such claims?”

“I believe you have too much heart to do what they say,” she dared to lean forward and cup his face. Zevran recoiled, out of fear of being caught with the host’s wife on the balcony, he dared not question. Isabela chuckled, turning to dance with the music emanating from inside instead. After a moment, she scanning the space around them and peered at the young man over her shoulder. Mocking her intrigue, she questioned, “Murder your lover for what? This?”

“Nigh is it so strange in the history of this City,” he spat, readying himself to leave.

“Oh yes!” Isabela returned, “Betrayal and love go hand in hand. So does gold and power.”

“Why were you at Kilne the other night?”

She smiled ruefully, “I have my reasons.”

But then she caught on to the implied accusation, and the woman took this moment to step in front of Zevran’s exit back into the brightly lit salon, “Oh, but nigh do you need to be concerned, sweetness! Your presence was a special surprise.”

Flustered, the young man rounded on her, “What do you want?”

“I’m curious,” She tittered, grabbing onto his shoulder and tilting in conspiratorially. Zevran’s tolerance for beautiful women would normally see him playing into her game, but the circumstances were too conspicuous. Her words were too cutting, no matter how unintentional they may have been. She gushed, “I have heard so many stories about the Golden Boy, and I simply had to inquire for myself.”

“Your husband is but a stone’s throw from us,” he countered, “Do you nigh consider this rather poor manners in front of your patrons?”

Another bound of laughter burst forth. Zevran could nearly tasty the brandy on her breath, she was so close, “They do have you on your toes, yes?”

“Please,” mustering every ounce of chivalry, the young man pushed the hostess by the small of her back toward the entry. A serious expression crossed him as he searched for Taliesen in the crowd, “Perhaps we should return, then.”

“The pressing question, of course, is what you plan to do about it?” He was cornered with the assertion and he paused in his step. Isabela turned back to see her husband welcoming the very late arrival of the Onesta. The elderly woman was accompanied by a harem of young courtesans behind her, foreshadowing the evening ahead. The woman hummed, and returned to Zevran, speaking offhandedly as she finally let him go, “Will you truly let them get away with the murder of an innocent girl all for the sake of politics?”

He was stunned and in a very unfortunate situation. Isabela indeed let him be after her final words, but just in time for the housemaster to gather him again and toss him into the fray. He grabbed a decanter and poured himself a serving of port followed by another when the first did not calm him.

“You are shaken,” Taliesen observed and suddenly, the housemaster was very close to his side, “What happened?”

Zevran grimaced with the shake of his head, “Neh a thing.”

An entire bottle of brandy later, and the evening was more of a blur than what he could recall. The man awoke in a soft bed with someone cuddling close to his side. A headache was brewing, and he peered down into the coverlet at a mop of dark hair and the pointed tips of ears. Scenes surged forth in his mind about how he got to this place, and then Zevran wanted to beat himself senseless. The buddle in his arms was one of the most beautiful Daedric he had ever laid eyes on. And her presence was seemingly meant just for him as she sauntered forward and gazed deeply into his amber pools with a tropical sea of her own. It was as though the Crow was under some spell when she traced the length of his face and gifted a captivating smile. What was he to do?

He should have known better, but the distraction was all consuming. Mixed with drink and heady air, it was too easy to fall under her will. And women were his weakness, or so he was known. Thus, what ever she needed, he gave her with reverence.

In the vivid morning light, however, the regret sank back in. Zevran took a moment to rest his cheek against her silken tresses before gingerly untangling himself from the covers.

He was awake before everyone else, blessedly. Without a sound, he managed to grab a loaf of bread and dried meat from the kitchen and headed back down to Dockside for his morning routine. Taliesen would be along eventually, if he was still around at all. The housemaster somehow disappeared in the night and the young man could not remember why or where. He feigned interest in women easily enough, but Zevran recognized by now where his appetites lied. His path was a lonely one indeed.

Sympathy was not something he wanted for the housemaster, though. He deserved what he got, Zevran considered. Where did the protégé of Arnii really stand with regard to their supposed friendship in the face of ascension in the Crows? Taliesen confided in him, trusted him, cared for him out of some hidden fondness he would not dare tell another, and yet he chose to hurt the young man in the most heinous way. What was the point of it all? The housemaster had everything to gain from their recent folly, and that notion alone crushed the young man.

“Sod him,” he muttered as he unearthed several tinctures from within the confines of his crate in the attic. Rinet was only one of several salves Zevran had developed for the House over the years, and he eyed his supply before wrapping the sampling carefully in a linen cloth. He would make his delivery to Ignacio, but at his price. If the Hound did not wish to pay his share, then his little knives could die from infection for all he cared.

With a set resolve, he made his way down the back alleys in the direction of a gate with a faded red flag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review?


	36. Part Five Chapter Four

Part Five Chapter Four

The tinctures were well received.

Upon his inspection, Ignacio admitted he had not expected Zevran to follow through, but the selection provided was impressive.

The knives, or little dogs as they were sometimes referred to, were all in various states of injury. The young man was not interested at first, but concern washed across his face as it dawned on him what the housemaster truly wanted.

“A Hound’s life is one of trial and woe,” was how Ignacio phrased his explanation, rolling up the linen packet and passing along a small parcel of gold in payment. “The strong emerge with a fighting chance, but it must be built from grit.”

It was simply the way of things. And as housemaster, his job was to see that the young recruits’ training was done correctly. Bruises and cuts lined the bodies of the young boys. Several had early signs of infection from broken bones, contusions, and other scrapes on their shaven scalps and thin faces. Innocent eyes were devoid of emotion, only observing the young man as he examined them with a sense of contrition. The sight brought forward memories of his own anguish when he began learning the art of the duel with Taliesen; only then he was older and had the added benefit of a kinder sword master who would end on a high note if he saw his pupil too discouraged. And never had he sustained serious harm in the process.

“My supply nigh will cover this,” Zevran said with a grimace, “What you need is a cleric.”

Ignacio chuckled lowly, shaking his head, “Neh could this House afford such. Prayers are all that is on offer.”

When he looked over, he saw it. There was a faint hint of anxiety in the eyes of the housemaster, though his outward body language was just as relaxed and dismissive as any other time Zevran addressed him. The older man glanced at one of the boys and rested a hand on his bowed head. The child did not move, but the young Crow had to wonder if there was some gentleness there. And then the coldness set in again when he realized how he could have been that child were his circumstances any difference. His gut clenched.

“I will do my best to get you what you require,” Zevran finally returned. Ignacio turned to him with a nod.

The Duel Strings were set on a path of high profile errands. No longer receiving treatise from the Vancor, their contacts were assigned directly by retainers of House Arainai or the Guild Master. The thought of working with Taliesen again distressed the young man, but he hid his flourishing resentment behind a perfected mask of charm and indifference. The housemaster of Arnii was not interested in his remorse any longer anyway, and so he was certain his complaints would fall onto hollow ears.

Still, even with the notoriety and esteem of colleagues well above him, Zevran often felt treated as though he was little better than a porter. This was one such day, as he found himself again at the foot of House Mele to deliver a parcel from Gynn. Their conversation was barely civil as the Guild Master eyed him from his desk with a sneer and outlined his expectations of House Arnii’s wayward ward. Taliesen was present for that too, but this time chose to stay quiet as the young man was chastised for his perceived lack of attentiveness at a reception garnered just for him – and at great expense, the elder was quick to add!

Such disrespect would not be tolerated. Zevran was walking along the edge of a cliff in Gynn’s eyes, and the subtle rebelliousness was not lost on him.

This package was a token apology and to be delivered by the young man himself. Zevran swallowed his pride and accepted the rebuke in the moment, afraid that the scolding might have been over the uncouth scene with the merchant’s wife on the balcony. However, with the truth at his back, the young man now steamed over the situation as he paced the block. He never spoke with Luis Mele directly that night, and this was where the insult stemmed. A formal introduction must be done, lest grievances were shared with Eoman later. Plucking up the courage, he ascended the steps and lifted the lever at the grand entrance.

A servant welcomed him, took his cloak and offered refreshment. The behavior was so reminiscent of his youth, the young man stuttered slightly on his reply. Accepting a drink was customary though, and he was allowed some time in the atrium at least to gather his wits before someone would return to direct him to the parlor.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity. The morning sun peaked over the roof of the enclosed garden, rays of bright light casting the well in stark contrast with the shadow beyond it. Rich orange and lilac flowers were in bloom amongst the specially cultivated greens recently reaped for the kitchens. Inspecting the row of foliage, the young man noted several common vegetables he tended and often cooked with as a child. He learned, as he got older, how to add volcanic rock to the soil to help some plants absorb nutrients better, while others he would have to carefully preen off the caterpillars that attempted to eat the buds before they could fruit.

Life was different then. It was all he knew.

“Crow,” a meek voice echoed into the atrium, “The Lady will see you now.”

He quirked a fine brow, but followed the servant anyway through the tall hallways and into an open parlor on the ground floor farther into the compound. The room was decorated with an opulent array of plush low couches positioned around a central rug. An enormous painting of a storm battered ship preparing to weather a wave covered one wall, and beside it stood the elegant figure of Isabela.

She turned upon their entrance. Today, she was dressed in crème and olive, the folded pleats of her dress hanging off of her figure like a tapestry, cinched inward only at her waist with a wide golden brace. Her hair was curled and donned atop her head with delicate flower pins. Her face was still painted, though more subtly, allowing her natural beauty to shine through her broad grin.

“You may leave,” she stated to the retainer, and the pair was left alone.

Zevran glanced around the room, unsure if he should be there. He was to meet the master of the House, not his wife. The woman seemed to catch on intuitively, though.

“Luis regrets that he nigh can meet with you today,” she began formally, a crass smile emerging soon after, “In truth, I doubt he remembers you at all anyway.”

“Well, then that is a relief, yes?” The young man sauntered forward to a side table and set the parcel down on the dark wood, “I am simply here to deliver this from the Guild Master.”

“It is an apology he desires from you, no?”

Zevran turned to leave, but stopped at the rebuttal. Was she referring to Gynn or Luis, he wondered. He chose to make an observation of his own, “You seem quite perceptive, or do you listen in on all the conversations around you?”

“If it is an apology he wants, you can give it to me,” Isabela replied, settling on the couch between them.

Irritation was again nipping at the base of his scalp. He feigned brief smirk as he turned back, “Nigh do I see the point.”

Isabela snickered and patted a spot beside her, conceding, “Come, sit with me. Perhaps I was a tad manic the other night. I was simply so eager to meet you after all of the tall tales this fine City has on offer!”

“Which ones?” Zevran mused, still somewhat hesitant. Should anyone discover him philandering with a merchant’s wife – should Taliesen know – there would be consequences. But the thought of angering the housemaster no longer held him so still as it used to. There was a beautiful woman before him beckoning to share a seat, and an entire city of Shem who would be angered by this action.

He moved around the table, the expression on his sharp profile becoming more feline with each step, “You neh answered my question the other night.”

Isabela appeared to be thinking as she half closed her eyes with hum. Tilting her head up to him as he slowly approached her side, she pouted, “I am bored.”

“Bored?” Zevran looked down at her and slowly sank onto the cushion. Reaching an arm back to grasp the back of the couch, he positioned himself to face the woman, “What could possibly bore such a lovely creature? You have the world at your fingertips. Were our slippers exchanged, I would live like a king!”

“Of course you would!” Isabela scoffed, gesturing at him flippantly, “You are man! You can do whatever you like.”

Zevran dared catch her hand mid-swing, bringing her fingers to his lips in reverence. The motion noticeably subdued Isabela, and she relaxed back into the seat as the silence began to soak in. The young man kept her hand lightly close to him, placing small kisses along her knuckles, amber eyes keenly on her for any response. And the woman watched him, the subtlest of blushes creeping up her tan cheeks.

But the moment was gone in an instant as she gently pulled back, her tone dampened by some unknown emotion, “You are free.”

The ludicrousness of the statement caused Zevran to let out the air in his chest. It was a sigh that seemed to fill the room with all his regret, “Neh are any of us free, my dear.”

“Do you know what it is my husband trades in?”

Did he care? Zevran turned back to the woman, her attention more on the grandness of the parlor as though it explained so much.

“He trades in the lives of others,” she said before looking over at him, conjuring a smile that did not reach her eyes, “It was how he acquired me. It is what fills this home with such grand treasures. It is what garners his friendship with Valisti so unique.”

Luis Mele was a smuggler. Such a profession was not unheard of in Antiva. Indeed, entire Houses made their name brokering trade deals on drift across Thedas. And the manner of drift was unimportant. People, things – they were all commodities in the end. It was a person’s requirement in life to find their own worth.

The Crows might take special note of his stock then, Zevran suspected. He gave a dismissive tisk.

“He ignores me now,” his attention was refocused when Isabela spoke up again, “He says I am too demanding, yet he refuses to release me.”

“Demanding,” Zevran repeated, unsure where such a refined woman might find herself, were she released from the confines of marriage. Like the Daedric porters and servants, women were a hidden feature of the City, only emerging during the great fall festivals in colorful troupes and on the arms of their male counterparts to and from the Chantry. They were like the flowers in the garden, temporary visions. To be without company said more about the station of the woman than the finery of her clothes or the coin in her purse.

Isabela hummed again and shook away her thoughts before redirecting her words, “I seek distraction from my boredom, is all. It is why I visit Tern under the guise of a barmaid.”

“That is quite dangerous, my dear,” Zevran replied. “Were something to happen to you, the City would cry out in despair.”

With that, the fullness of her laughter filled with room, and the young man could not help be delighted by it. Isabela’s entire face bloomed with the shift in her mood as she leaned her chin onto the palm of her hand and considered him, “I am more resourceful than you might believe.”

He raised his brows in surprise, “Nigh am I to question.”

Isabela bit her bottom lip, the pearliness of her teeth like small talons on her skin, “I would like to know you better.”

Zevran jerked away in jest, a faux sense of modesty overcoming him. He peered at her out of the corner of his eye, chortling, “Yet another quite dangerous diversion.”

“For us both, no?”

He had to wonder what game she was playing, if she was attempting to lure him into a trap. Access to the wife of a man so close to his benefactor could be a test to see where his boundaries lied. Then again, shoving propriety back into his betters’ faces sent a chill of exhilaration through the young man. If they were to determine his worth only by what they deemed suitable for him, to be done away with at the first instance of failure, then perhaps Zevran should reward himself for all that he had done in the process. After all, was it not a prince who taught him to take pleasure where he found it?

_To be undone by beauty is the greatest triumph of the Maker._

His voice purred in his long awaited response, “Perhaps we could be each other’s distraction then, yes?”

And her smile glowed, “I think I would like that.”

Spring was fully in bloom. The strong breeze harkened the southerly passage of ships and nomadic tradesmen to Dockside, bringing with them the seasonal trade from Rivaine and Tevinter. After many years of service, Zevran’s morning duties were finally lifted for that of a Rivaini maid. But this did not stop him from visiting the Nevarran brothers daily to take up some of the free time he was given since House Arnii’s recognition. The mornings were spent with fond banter and heckling of the patrons.

“You should become a merchant, my friend,” Izeek piped up one morning. Nabul snorted into his honeyed tea and continued to wave off the gnats with his fan. Although the day was still cool, the tiny bugs hovered closely around the various powders.

Zevran grinned unabashedly, “And what grand things would I sell? Expensive things, I hope?”

“Aye,” Izeek’s emphatic nod turned more conspiratorial, “the finest potions for fairest ladies!”

The trio chuckled at the obvious jab. True, there was never a shortage of young and old women alike, mostly maids or local residents making their rounds at the spice stalls, stepping in briefly to check the Nevarran’s other wares. If Zevran happened to be present, he would attempt to coax them into buying something extra along with their requested herbs – even just the smallest of trinkets for themselves for all of their hard work over such thankless tasks. If the customer was a man, he would issue a mild guilt trip over how overworked his wife must be, and she deserved better than a miser at the stall. These exchanges were often treated with tittering amongst the clientele, particularly the young women, a good swat from an elderly grandmother if he went too far, and a hearty laugh from the husbands who chose not take him too seriously anyway. And, of course, the occasional ginny for his effort.

Sometimes, these interactions resulted in much larger purchases though, such as one woman who walked away with a rare Orlesian pin adorning her golden curls. She was a shipman’s daughter, sent off with her small entourage of fishermen’s wives in search of good dry rubs for their stock whilst on their long journey south to Denerim. Zevran thought the item would suit her, and took it upon himself to fit the pin into her hair, spinning some tale about how the last beautiful owner was bequeathed the gift by her adoring lover. So heartbroken was she when her lover died, that she tossed the pin into the sea, only to be found by happenstance within the fishing nets the following season. A brass hand mirror was produced from nowhere then, and the young man ran his finger down her cheek to show her reflection, all the while staring into her soft green eyes and telling her how fetching she appeared.

A parcel of gold was dropped onto the counter.

So effective was his pleasant nonchalance, it became a running joke amongst the stalls that all women would one day meet the great Charm of Tern and fall under his will. The Nevarran brothers certainly filled their coffers around his charisma. He was a welcome sight.

“Here,” Izeek offered, handing the young man a bottle of ink, “Take this as payment for today.”

“But I have done neh a thing,” he protested.

“Take it! Use it!” the Nevarran waved at him before adjusting his headscarf, “I know you have been thinking about another marking. You should find your brother and ask for a favor, I think.”

Zevran scoffed and wondered how Izeek could be so observant. What he said was true, but the young man was at a loss about how best to approach Ren. The pair still rarely spoke to one another, and since Santinalia, the Daelish fellow was absent from the tavern. He never did hear from Taliesen about where his son was sent.

He took the gift in kind and went on his way. The Grand Master called the Duel Strings for an errand in Rialto, and the Crow was using the morning as a distraction from his growing unease. Perhaps pondering over how he could use the marking ink would help temper him around the housemaster. And then upon his return, he could refocus on other things that mattered more.


	37. Part Five Chapter Five

The errand did not go as planned. The Duel Strings were tasked with a mark on a merchant who had the unfortunate association with an adversary of House Valisti. The identity of this supposed enemy was unimportant, though Zevran suspected the grudge was personal. Although House Arainai had little place to be involved, Eoman not so subtly suggested that the pair’s newest aim was to prove themselves among the elite of both Talons if they were to be taken seriously for long. The namesake of House Arnii was also on the line, as the result would surely reward them handsomely, and more importantly, demonstrate Taliesen’s leadership in the eyes of the Grand Master.

Proving his worth was beginning to feel like an endless chore. When no one knew or cared who they were, Zevran felt free to do as he wished. Now that eyes were upon them, the impulse to seemingly sabotage his endeavors was too great.

The death was to be a suicide, and the outcome would have been without fault had Zevran come through as expected. Taliesen conjured a brilliant plan to make his cohort the decoy. The young man was hired under the guise that he worked on behalf of a seminary in Kirkwall to deliver the merchant’s eldest son from Rialto to the coastal city of Bastion, where he would board a boat south for the Free Marches. The mark was never meant for the son, but kidnapping him pushed the man out of hiding, and together they apprehended the man in a small warehouse on the edge of the dock.

“The task is simple,” Taliesen smiled easily, resting the tip of his dirk onto a scrap of parchment between him and the merchant seated at the table, “Pen this letter, hang yourself, and your son will be let free.”

The man shifted back and forth between the guide he thought his family had hired and the Crow before him. Shaking his head, he let out a slight huff, “Are you mad?”

Taliesen was unmoved, “Quite the contrary.”

“And how do I know you have my son?”

It was Zevran’s turn to step forward, producing the family locket once around the young relative’s neck. The act the retrieving it was a bit of an affair, as the son was little more than a boy and held an open disdain for his Daedric retainer, likely cultivated through generations of irrational hatred and superiority. Much of the trip was spent privately cursing Taliesen for having him guard such a spoiled brat when they could have simply tracked his father and strung him up themselves. The only thing that seemed to distract the lad from tormenting his servant during their journey was complaining about how upset he was to be sent away to study in some foreign land. To the son, this was the most atrocious act his father had ever committed! It was with little empathy that Zevran finally chose to drug the child and take the ornament once they finally arrived at the inn in Bastion.

The merchant’s face fell into an icy stare as he traced the heirloom to Zevran’s face, demanding, “What have you done to him?”

Rage boiled up, his usually smooth features momentarily flickering with his reply, “neh a thing.”

“You have made a serious enemy in the City, as I am sure you are already aware. In fact, you have been so very good at hiding, we had need to acquire your son just to speak with you,” Taliesen leaned forward, keen on getting the man’s attention. Once satisfied, he continued, his tone grave, “You must know the enemy of a Crow is an enemy of all Crows, yes? And do you know what we do with our enemies?”

Apparently the merchant did, and his position slowly slouched onto the back of his chair. His expression sullied as the silence set in, and the housemaster took this as a sign to make his point.

“You will pen this letter abandoning your trade agreement in Rivaine, and to your most egregious crime, you will hang yourself.”

There was a long, stilted silence and Zevran glanced around the room with his growing unease. He was lost as to whatever this supposed crime was and why Taliesen failed to fill him in. The merchant wrestled with the weight of the housemaster’s unspoken consequences though, his gruff voice eventually filling the room.

“If I do this, the Crows will assure my son’s life and the safety of my family for any reprisal that may arise?”

Taliesen produced a genuine grin then, kind and open and unwavering in his words, “You have my word, friend.”

Something felt amiss as he watched the merchant’s body swing.

The son had no idea what was happening, as he was merely waiting for a boat to whisk him away. Zevran’s errand was to hand him over to the boat captain once docked, and the pair would then return to the City. It was when he returned to the inn that he realized his mistake.

Taliesen stood motionless in the doorway as the young man checked over the boy. The drug was to ease him into a deep slumber, but in his hurry, or irritation, the tipple proved too strong. The captain would have no one to claim come morning.

“Where is your head?!” The housemaster seethed as he entered and closed the door behind him.

“My head?” He had no decent answer, but Zevran jerked back to his partner anyway, “I have spent a careful fortnight watching over this little beast! Nigh was it my intent to kill him!”

Taliesen stepped close to his counterpart, a harsh reminder in how tightly he gripped Zevran’s shoulder as he hissed, “Your error risks our name!”

Zevran’s error truly risked Taliesen’s name, he considered saying, and bitterness crept up with the bile at the back of his throat when he forced himself to keep silent. The young man glanced back at the child’s body still in the same position from when he was tucked in earlier that evening. He looked strangely peaceful.

“We change our story then,” A moment passed before Taliesen let go of his colleague’s vest and paced the length of the room in long, slow struts. Deep in thought, he scratched at the stubble on his chin and began to mutter, “We will say that you were ambushed on the road to Bastion, and in the ensuing scuffle, the child was killed. Still, we carried out our duty befitting of our House.”

Zevran closed his eyes and exhaled. He killed someone on accident, an innocent, and he was going to have to face the consequences of his blunder. The housemaster echoed the sentiment, “This should suffice, though Eoman nigh will be pleased.”

“What crime was it that you spoke of to this man?” The question blurted out before he could stop himself.

Taliesen balked, his tall form set rod straight as he bellowed his response, “Neh does that matter, Zev!”

“No?” The room felt like ice as he turned up to the housemaster’s angry grimace, “It was important enough to involve his son! Why would you ever keep me so blind?”

The man’s face blanched, and then fell blank as he processed the query. Shaking his head, Taliesen motioned heatedly, “Neh am I the one to blame here! Now I must fix this mess. You should make certain you take time to return. You must, of course, heal from whatever injury you endured in your failed attempt to save this child’s life!”

From there the Duel Strings parted, the young man left alone with a body, confused and furious in the dockside inn.

Zevran made his slow return to the City. Burying the child was little effort as he moved him like much of the cargo hauled off port in a burlap cover he lifted in the early morning. Guessing the kind of injury he was supposed to seek healing for was more troubling, no less for the understanding that the housemaster desired to be the cause. Still, the fact he was kept in the dark about his part in the errand renewed his burning resentment, and so the young man took as long as he could financially afford to follow the winding road north. If for nothing else, perhaps Taliesen might become worried in his long absence, or so his spiteful thoughts desired.

He spent much of his time searching for herbs he could use for House Stil. Elfroot was a common enough plant, albeit rare in the City with no fresh running water. Along with the weed was another less common moss used to clean wounds, and together, a concoction could be made to accelerate the healing process for all manner of ills. Both were expensive, even for clerics, which was why cheaper alternatives were often sought. Zevran, however, knew where to look under the careful tutorship of the Master all those many years ago. On his eighth day while trailing along a small canyon near Salle, he found his pay.

Upon his return, Zevran went straight to the attic. The evening was blessedly late, and so the young man had little worry of running into anyone beyond the tavern. From there, he set to work, grinding down the satchel full of the goods he accumulated on his journey and converting them into a series of pastes, lotions and droughts. By the time he finished, the sun cast a glare onto his sleepy eyes as it peaked over the rooftop of the adjoining building.

He was set to clean the copper lantern as his final task when he at last noticed the note, carefully scripted in Taliesen’s handwriting.

_Seek me upon your return._

He fought the urge to crumple the paper and instead went to sleep.

The next evening, still exhausted from the entire endeavor, the young man bypassed socializing with his brethren for the dinginess of the Kilne. He promised a product nearly two months prior to the Hound House, and a large part of him hoped the housemaster would be present to take his offering with coin in hand.

The tavern was as he remembered. Dark, loud and filled with foreigners. Slipping past the entrance, he caught the attention of the Hound closest to the door, the young lad, whom gestured to the back of the room. Ignacio was in the middle of a conversation with someone, but paused mid-sentence to observe Zevran as he approached the broad, low table.

“We will finish this later,” he said, draining his tankard of ale and dismissing the cloaked figure at his side. And like that, they may as well have been alone in the room for how quickly the space cleared itself. Ignacio set dark eyes onto the young man and pushed out a stool with his boot, “Have a seat. You appear tired, my friend.”

Zevran snorted and took the chair, pulling up his linen satchel as he went, “I have been busy at your request, yes?”

The housemaster’s disposition changed, but only minutely, as he leaned forward and peered into the cloth. Plucking out a ceramic jar, he opened the container to examine its contents, after a moment bringing the pot closer to his nose to take in the minty scent. Glancing back at his guest, he probed, “How did you come by this, and so much of it?”

“Nigh are you to worry about such things,” Zevran commented dryly, pulling out a tincture of bluish liquid in a small bottle, “Take care whence empty. Glass is gold, yes?”

The man was rendered speechless, and he was glad when a familiar face appeared before him with a pewter cup. Isabela chimed, “I see our cat has returned.”

“Indeed he has,” Ignacio answered, missing the flirtatious smile directed at the man beside him when he turned up to the woman, “A round of brandy.”

Although he wanted nothing more than to curl up on his pallet in the attic, Zevran indulged the housemaster of Stil in some candid banter. Rumor spread like fire when Taliesen returned to the City alone. Something happened, but no one was mad enough to inquire directly, as the housemaster’s disposition left much to be desired. He was incensed, and Ignacio wanted to know why. With a sack of gold in his possession, the young man knew the best thing to do was stay quiet, but his pride and several strong drinks inevitably won over.

“You are bitter, just like him once.”

It was the third round of brandy and Zevran was feeling warm. He chose to keep a discrete eye on Isabela as she traversed the room repeatedly, sure to lean over as far as she dared to get the notice of her patrons. Her actions were well received, and the young man was certain she was rewarded more than her fair share in coin. Or perhaps she simply lived for the attention. The notion would not have surprised him considering the last time they met and the heated exchange that followed. He wondered then where he might corner her if the chance presented itself again.

The betting ring roared beyond them as one rooster lost his battle against a flock of betters all waged against him. The housemaster hummed into his cup and nodded with his assertion.

“They say his father was a right swordmaster. One of the best in the City,” Ignacio continued. He raked across the tavern with a critical expression, “The Vintolli House is favored, so when Master Trevi left for Denerim, there was quite a fuss.”

Zevran perked up, “You know about Taliesen’s past?”

“Neh, I know stories of all who walk through my doors,” the housemaster cracked a wry smile, toothy and full of malice. He tapped a finger on the weathered wood and then at Zevran, “You – nigh would you have landed here, I think. Neh, your story began at The Palme, so I wager you would have fetched a fancy wealth in House Mann or Dinn on your way to West, “Ignacio chuckled then, “Aye, Daedric, Daelish, you are all the same.”

How could this be true? Surely Zevran had seen others of his kind among the din of Tern, albeit in far fewer numbers. He was reminded of the Daedric brothers so long from his youth, their tongues cutting, their small forms thin and hungry. The boatman’s coarse words to teach the pair a lesson with their Master echoed in his ears. He was reminded of Ren’s son then, and the looming certainty that he too would become a Hound were his fate not so upturned after Santinalia.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but Zevran chose to settle on one, “How do you know where I am from?”

“Neh count yourself rare, it is my duty to know,” was his reply. The housemaster sat back, his tone becoming dismissive again as he waved aimlessly between them, “Taliesen though, he caries his weight in gold for all that has been offered to him. Do you know his boat sank?”

The young man raised a brow, “His boat sank?”

“Aye,” Ignacio nodded and continued, “On its way to Tavinter, broke in a storm and sank nigh far beyond Salle. He was the sole survivor, or so I was told, clung to the drift like a rat on mast. House Valisti demanded their goods true, so three Hounds braved the tide to drag that turncoat's son ashore.”

Taliesen always had been tightlipped about how he came to Antiva, simply stating that he left Fereldan on a boat and fought all the way to the steps of the Vancor. The housemaster of Stil agreed.

“I was nigh yet housemaster, but House Stil was chosen to bring him into the fold,” his teeth glinted again as he took a sip of brandy, “I was to see where his skill lied, test his will and wit,” a dark laugh rumbled out, “Oh, did he struggle. I nearly killed him twice, and twice my hand was stayed. When he finally left, he even chose wise to spit in my face.”

Perhaps this was why the housemasters never saw eye to eye. Zevran questioned, “What happened to him?”

“He was given to Velabanchel in hope to inspire him unto Andraste’s will,” Ignacio guffawed, and there was a hint of cynicism in the housemaster voice as he huffed out an appreciative retort, “Nigh worked, no? Nearly a year yet, he left that prison on his own feet, and in reward they gave him a House.”

“You sound unhappy by such a twist in fate,” the young man noted. The old prison was a place where unspoken horrors occurred as a fable to all those who might take to angering the Guild. Supposedly, all Hounds ventured there at some point in their lives as a testament, an unfortunate pilgrimage. Taliesen was no exception, and Zevran was curious what he experienced as punishment for questioning his place.

Ignacio acknowledged him with a frown, “Nigh would I desire such! I know what I am. For Taliesen though, this was to prove his worth. So stubborn was he, even there, the Guild Masters felt need to challenge him into obedience. Perhaps they might regret that choice now, for his ‘Converts’ have surely surprised, yes?”

Zevran blinked and sat back, “Did they desire for him to fail?”

“Desire? No,” Ignacio shook his head and called for another round, “But Gynn will be keen on his venture, “he turned back to rest his chin on an idle palm, “Perhaps his grit is the same as his fathers. And perhaps, he is subject to the same folly. Who is to say?”

A Hound could make his way from the bottom of a den to the tip of a talon if his worth was great enough. Certainly Taliesen’s parentage allowed him favor early in his tenure, but the hope of Zevran’s own ascent through talent alone was encouraging enough. He pondered over the surface of his tankard, “If my grit proves fruitful, what is my chance of the same?”

There was a moment of silence between them as the housemaster of Stil glanced over to gage the young man’s seriousness. The betting ring was boisterous in the midst of another fight and it clear there would be another rooster lost before the night was finished. Ignacio’s expression slowly softened, the urge to laugh stifled by the reality of his circumstance.

“Neh a hope.”

Zevran schooled his expression into a savvy grin, but was cut short by the man, “Mark me, nigh will they will ever accept you.”

“Why?” He demanded, his golden eyes darkening, “ The Grand Master of Arainai was a Hound. Neh for all my toil, Taliesen has a place at all!”

And there it was. Zevran snapped his jaw shut and finished his brandy resentfully, the sensation burning in his throat as strong as the regret in his heart. He should have kept the last bit to himself, but Ignacio did not seem to mind. The older man kept calm, passing him his own tankard to finish as he consoled, “Eoman was well known before he was acquired. He was a trade, in fact. Taliesen has blood that seeks an old favor. What, my friend, do you have on offer? Servitude of an old man in a high House?”

He snapped his attention back to the housemaster. Ignacio knew everything then, and the entire situation felt farcical as Zevran restrained the sudden urge to flee. Was it not Taliesen who lectured on and on about the dire consequences should anyone know of his hard won skill? And yet, here sat a man who apparently always understood, and it meant nothing to him. Was it not his own reputation that was the downfall of his lover? That could not possibly be if his association mattered little to the business of better men.

Slowly, his face slipped onto his hands to cage the onset of a headache. Perhaps nothing he did mattered then, for he would never see his way beyond the House of Arnii.

Igancio’s voice picked up again, deep and soft among the shouts in the background. A strong hand shook his shoulder in a manner to help bring the young man out of his stupor, “Acceptance is a virtue, my friend. Find it and you will be at peace.”


	38. Part Five Chapter Six

A ceramic jar was placed firmly onto the table.

Ren peered up from the conversation around him and straight into Zevran’s amber eyes, his arms crossed, his expression dull. The younger man remained standing, staring the other down in a manner that normally would see a duel between the pair. But there would be no fight this evening as his comrade lifted his chin and grunted in acquiescence, “Tomorrow, in the forum.”

“Aye, Zev! You should stay a while,” Velnas added, clapping his brawny hands together in his demand.

Zevran glanced up and posted a brief smile, “With all my regret, dear friend.”

He had declined the comradery at the tavern with rest of the Salty Brood many times in the recent weeks. His place in House Arnii felt as much of a burden as his reputation in Tern, it seemed. Indeed, it was beginning to bother him how well known he was among the merchants and porters, the taverns and women. And so, he often tucked himself away in the attic instead, at work with various reagents.

This would have to change, he was certain. No longer could he indulge in the Courtesans if it meant that he was the joke among his betters. No longer would he consider his brethren if it meant he could do better work with the House of Stil.

There was a rapport building between Zevran and Ignasio. Somehow in his trials, the young Crow finally earned his mark among them. The pair met regularly at the Hound den or the Dockside tavern with trade, then chatter. The young man found that many of the Hounds had a biting wit, carved from a cynicism that was infectious as it was shrewd. Most were rather intelligent, eager, cunning, and surprisingly welcoming of the newcomer. And Zevran found himself oddly at ease in their company.

The gold in his pocket said nothing to the value of an acknowledged skill, however. This was a far better outcome than perfecting a wallflower among Masters.

The back forum was warm and sunny, heralding the start of summer. Zevran found a comfortable spot and waited for his old roommate. He was thumbing the container in his palms, humming an old tune when a shadow appeared over him. The Daelish man stooped to one side, his slight shoulders folding as though he might disappear into the nook against the far gate. The space was cozy, littered with shards of flint and feathers that crackled under Zevran’s boots as he shifted enough for the other to squat down.

Ren wasted no time unwrapping his tools, questioning as he went, “What do you desire?”

“I seek a wistful mark, I think,” Zevran cocked his head before glancing back at his brother, “One that might make me stand alone, hark a dark and dangerous nature.”

Ren scrutinized him then, resting his elbows on his knees, “Odd, for you already have such a mark, though hidden.”

They shared a laugh, the hollow sound reverberating off the stucco walls. The deep scars still held an undefined ache so many years later. And though they were more like the paw of some large dog, the young man was not so picky on what type of predator he wished to portray.

“Where?”

Zevran directed three fingers to his left temple and drew a wavy line down his cheek.

“Feh,” Ren raised a thin, dark brow and sat back on his feet, “Nigh would that be clear? Would mar your perfect face, yes?”

Zevran’s smile was wicked as it was knowing, his sharp eyes glinting as he replied, “That is what I gather, though with your skill, I am sure you could conjure splendor from the broken stroke of your blade.”

Ren snorted, although he did not object. After all, it was the Daelish way to tell their life story through markings for all to see, or so Zevran believed. He wanted nothing more than his story to be told.

And so the pair sat quietly in the corner of the forum from mid-day through the afternoon. There was a pleasant silence, and Zevran spent his time thinking back on simpler times when he had not yet understood the world around him. Of an open veranda overlooking the sea and of a tiny back room filled with rows of powder. Each jab of the reed was evidence that he was awake, each wipe of the damp cloth a tacit reminder of how easily all could be lost. The ink had a rustic ocher hue the young man knew would sit rosy on his tanned skin. A trio of lines emerged over the course of the day, bent like a waterfall over the ridge of his brow and onto the hollow beneath his cheekbone. The result would be a fine display, he decided.

A set of footfalls beyond the well interrupted their easy calm, and Ren momentarily halted his work to peer over Zevran’s shoulder into the forum. With a tisk, he began the process of cleaning his tools, grousing as he leaned over, “Our fearless leader has a warning on offer.”

Zevran nudged up in time to see Taliesen approach, the housemaster’s expression a mix of relief and irritation as he groaned at the edge of the space, “Thank the Maker, I have been looking everywhere for you, Zev.”

“Here I am.”

There was some pause as the housemaster observed them, accepting the stalk of grass from Ren before seating himself along the wall adjacent to the pair. He stuck the blunt end into his mouth and chewed, submitting a glare at his cohort, “Where have you been?”

“Here,” and it was not a lie, for Zevran had spent much of his time at the House during the day. It was the evening when he slipped out without so much notice. He turned his profile over to show a glimpse of his most recent acquisition, “Our friend has a wondrous talent, would you nigh say?”

He ceased chewing and the young man could sense the ire burning in the back of the housemaster’s gaze. The sentiment pushed a smirk to the surface as he returned to his kneeled position. Ren pulled out a thicker reed to infuse a darker color. The jab renewed itself at his brow.

Slowly Taliesen regained his voice, his tone flat, “I want to talk to you about one of the contracts.”

“And what would I know about such?” There was a challenge hidden in his words, and Ren adjusted as the young man peered to the side, “Neh advice I could offer, you are willing to take.”

Taliesen bit his lip hard, removing the grass with a start as though he was going to say something harsh. But the words seemingly died in his throat as he glanced over Ren again and spoke more carefully, “You are to seek me out when finished here.”

Zevran turned his vision back toward the well with no more of a response, and the housemaster righted himself. The tenseness of their exchange did not abate though, as the man deliberated above them something else before stalking off toward the brick enclosure again.

Many minutes of silence passed, filled only the repetitive soft taps of the hammer against the reed. The encounter should not have bothered Zevran so much, but all he could feel was the heat of shame and anger in his face beyond the pain of each jab near his eyelid.

It was Ren who broke the stillness, his speech slow and deliberate as his strikes. He said in his native tongue, “I had wondered now how long you were involved with the contracts.”

The young man bustled bitterly, a smile countering the acridity of his reply in the same languid dialect, “For as long as you sought your son a home.”

The hammer stopped mid-swing and Ren stared, his jet bangs obscuring the seriousness of his expression. Zevran shifted then to look at the older man, a hardness shaping his golden pools into a sullen squint, “Near three years, you’ve seen its fortune, I would say.”

There was no way Ren could deny such a claim. His son was safe now, taken in as an apprentice of House Sagit after much negotiation on Taliesen’s part. He vouched for the child personally with Gynn, that he could attest the Daelish’s skill with a bow and that he had earned his worth enough to lift his kin out of the dens of Dockside. Quite a dramatic affair, the housemaster was willing to even share the story with the Salty Brood as a reminder that he would continue to fulfill his promise to each of them in turn.

All the more, House Arnii was quite a different sight from when Zevran found himself on its doorstep so many years ago. They were well known, and more importantly, well respected. They had all the proper fittings of a Crow House now, a recognized sigil, work for all the men housed there, and enough gold to carry when they found themselves without. There was little need to voice the reason for such luck, but Ren was never one for subtly beyond the whip of his arrow.

The man dabbed the reed into the inkwell on his mat, and in a hushed tone whispered, “What they did to you was low, even for the Crows.”

It was Zevran’s turn to stiffen at this observation, and he swallowed his dismay. All this was for nothing, he repeated to himself, and the notion of his lost effort spurred him to ask, “How did you come to find House Arnii?”

“Nigh by choice,” was Ren’s immediate response. Even though they were speaking in a language few could understand, he was hesitant to continue, the young man could tell. The forum was quiet again, and Zevran had accepted that this might be the only answer when the older man’s lilt returned, “My brother was an angry man.”

“Oh? How so?”

“When he was a child, when I was yet smaller,” he began, the tapping of the reed creating a cadence to the story, “he had been taken and we feared he was dead. But nigh yet spring, he was returned to us, a shamed little thing. I would oft ask where he went, but neh would he say. Only hatred was left, where once he was mild.”

Zevran lifted the side of his mouth away from his brother and pondered, “Is this a wife’s tale?”

“It is a tale most of us know, “Ren sighed, “The Shem take their share and more. We are left grieving.”

“Forgive me,” He replied.

The tapping slowed for a moment before renewing its pace. Calm silence captured them again until Ren paused to gather more ink, “He remained that way for many years. His anger consumed him like a fabled demon. But the Hahren had hope. Always does the Keeper have hope.”

“What happened?”

“He was cruel. Neh could I see my brother any longer, but someone who did as he craved, nigh with concern. How he was to her…” He clenched his jaw as he wrestled between thoughts, and then pained words spilt from his lips, “Nigh could I stand what he said, he did to her.”

He took a breath, and continued tapping on the reed, “Neh in our clan would hunt with him, and so I agreed. I wanted to understand. Like the Keeper, I wanted to help him, I suppose. But even to me we were strangers, and in the dead of night he tried to kill me.”

He must have been desperate in his action, Zevran realized. Ren agreed, “It is the greatest sin to slay your family, neh choice on offer.”

“But it was defense, yes?”

“Nigh do you know our ways, child,” Ren sniffed dismissively, “So few of us left.”

He could have argued with the man about how his clan would surely have empathized the plight of a hapless brother, but Zevran chose to withhold his judgment. Who was he to say what was best amid another’s beliefs anymore? He suggested instead, “So you ran.”

He felt the nod through the strike of the hammer, “Taliesen found me hungry, lost far south of the Wood. I attempted a passage to the Dales in hope my past nigh followed, yet neh luck filled my cup.”

“Oh?”

“Slavers.”

Silence lapsed again, and Zevran felt his cheek burn.

“Were you bought?” He asked.

“No,” Ren supplied, leaning down to clean the reed again before wiping away the remaining residue from his subject’s face with a clean cloth. His tone lifted slightly, “I was freed. Taliesen gifted food and shelter for his effort; even proved a guide as far as Ansburg before making his request. He said ‘the world is so much more.’ He wanted to show me that nigh all Shem were the same, I think.”

The Daelish man sat back and contemplated his work. The asymmetric arc of markings curved in a manner some might consider seductive along the graceful edge of Zevran’s cheek, the tip of each wave ending slightly lower than the one in front of it, the longest near his ear narrowing just above his jaw. It was a simple pattern that belied more than what one might assume upon first inspection.

The young man turned to him, settling against the wall, “Do you believe him that nigh all Shem are the same?”

“He has provided for me; more than I could say for most.” Ren shrugged, his expression a blank slate, “Neh could I return. Neh do I have the heart.”

“Does your dally know all this?” Zevran knew the moment he voiced the question that he might be testing his newfound camaraderie with Ren. So much was shared unbidden already. The older man’s face indeed did harden, but only for a moment before he shifted his cobalt gaze over to the well.

“Aye, she is much the reason I stay still.”

“Because of your son?”

At this, the man smiled, and a brilliant light shined through his normally cloudy face such that Zevran was forced to take a breath. A huff of air left just as quickly as they made eye contact, bits of flint popping under the older man’s boot as he adjusted himself against the wall, “Neh would I be better than my brother if I left her. Had I, she would have been tossed to the street. Yet I am a Crow, and so her House must care for her, at least until he is old enough to follow.”

_Forever their sons wrought Crows._

“She is free now,” Ren said after some pause, a slow pinch of his brow emerging when he nodded again, “What she does is her choice now, but neh do I regret. Neh can I.”

This kind of revelation did not sit will with Zevran. Ren was motivated by the guilt of his brother’s death and the subsequent debt he owed another over his own misfortune. He might have questioned his brother’s intent, if he even loved the woman he sought for comfort, but the peaceful expression that blanketed the man after admitting she could now live her own life squashed all desire for answers. For all he knew, Ren may have given every last piece of gold in his possession to see to her and his son’s future. Perhaps he would continue to do so until the day he died. It was a bittersweet pill.

Zevran did not seek out Taliesen once he was finished in the forum. Instead, he sought out the company of Isabela. He knew her pattern by now, when she managed to slip out of her grand villa and embrace the grisly, broken frame of the tavern. Every three or four evenings she could escape, otherwise captured within the ‘gilded prison’ that she referred to her marriage. And she did as she pleased while she was free. It was early evening when he found her, nudging her into an old storeroom outfitted with a cot for when the inn was overflowing. It would be early morning before he left again.

They were a good distraction for each other. She would muse about the clientele and all the City gossip, he would bed her into submission, which she gladly challenged with a fiery zeal the young man could only admire. When they were not entangled in each other, she pouted until he caved and started teaching how to better use her paring knife. First as a dart, then as a hidden tool within her bodice for when some patron tried to manhandle her. They played card games to test each other’s wit until one would inevitably succumb and face their punishment for cheating or losing whatever bet was on the table.

Their affair was a passionate, empty consolation. Zevran had no delusions with Isabela. He made no mistake that this was fleeting as all the rest. Nor did Isabela dispute such a declaration. She was not hurt. There was no such thing as love within or without the bonds of the Chantry as her story could attest, for what little she dared share.

These trysts allowed Zevran to forget, even if only for a moment. Losing himself in the taste of another no longer invoked such a harsh pang of guilt over the memory of the last night he spent with Rinna. In fact, the heady desire served to keep her away, and the evenings spent in the dank din of the Kilne were dreamless. It was all he could ask for.

Perhaps this kind of existence was not so bad, Zevran wanted to think. He was rewarded handsomely for the goods he brought to Ignasio and his brethren. He held the attention of any number of consorts he might desire. He had the favor of the merchants. He had the confidence of his House. Even if his betters never recognized him for the skills he harbored, those who immediately mattered did not live in villas anyway, or at least they did not recognize them as such. To some, what the Daedric man achieved was as good as any House Master far up dip. And perhaps he might agree had he not suffered such a profound loss. Still, the young man could not help how empty his chest felt each morning, nor could he dissuade the dark places his mind would wander to when he thought too long on his circumstances.

Summer was waning by the time Zevran saw Taliesen again. The Vantenii came and went without him, and he knew his absence sent a ripple of conjecture throughout the House. He managed to lift two tokens for himself from the cushioned satchel, and he fulfilled them without issue. The only clue to his partner he was present at all was his cut left neatly on the corner of the housemaster’s dilapidated desk.

The Duel Strings were well and truly broken.

Zevran still had business with the House, of course. He expanded his reagents to cover House Stil for healing elixirs and droughts as well as a series of poisons and sedatives for members of Arnii, providing some lie about a secret merchant on the far end of Tern with all manner of illicit fare. Taliesen would know better, but then again, that was their secret, and the young man was so prolific with the merchants, the tale came as no shock to the other men. He was reimbursed for his purchases as far as the Salty Brood was concerned.

The afternoon was dimming, and the Crow lit a candle beside the copper lantern to better observe the mixture he was brewing. He was tired. Ignasio made an unusual request of him during their last meeting, and Zevran questioned quietly if he should follow through. The Hound wanted a poison, but not so simple as to send the intended to sleep or choke on his own vomit. He wanted one that would appear like a flux, a plague-like illness that would send others around him away rather than treat him. The subject would suffer an agonizing death through a slow isolation, the poison providing a pain to his insides that might drive him to suicide despite his inevitable demise.

The vast majority of poisons did not carry an antidote. And most poisons were given in enough quantity that they would surely kill the afflicted in relatively quick order once consumed. Zevran already had in mind a concoction he recalled from well into his apprenticeship, conjured like many of the elixirs in his inventory from seemingly innocuous ingredients. But supplying such a poison could put him at risk if the vial was traced back to him. Such an unusual poison would surely be noticed beyond the walls of House Guidain.

Someone crested the ladder at the attic opening, and Zevran closed the notebook at his side and stuffed it at the back of the table. Tipping over the cap of the lantern, he then snuffed out the mixture, causing the blend to smolder and release musky incense into the room. He would have to start anew when his company left.

A long exhale sounded near the opening to his space, and Zevran glanced up to see an exhausted housemaster. Taliesen’s lean form appeared gaunt in the shadow of the afternoon sun, his hair longer and tussled more than normal, his face unshaven and drawn as he stared at his cohort from the makeshift wall of crates he was leaning against. He did not enter; rather he remained still as though he was recounting some lost memory. And the two were caught up in their reverie until Zevran turned away and rubbed his weary face.

“You look ill, friend,” was all the young man could muster.

Taliesen had been away with Velnas and two others on an errand far to the north. The mark was an ambassador to Rivaine on behalf of a wealthy wine merchant who was in a dispute with another merchant prince over supply rights in the region. And while the ambassador was not stupid enough to travel along the routes his master sought to control, his home was rather conspicuous within the high town boroughs of Treviso. The assassination was to be a bloody affair, which was probably why the housemaster chose his partners in the manner he had. Yet, the action still felt strange among the men where so they often saw a pair now only a single leader.

Zevran stayed behind, feigning disinterest to the rest of the House while inside he was boiling with rage. The ambassador was a name he recognized as a man he knew while under the tutorship of the Master. Derek Munchevi was a polished spokesman with a lingering enthusiasm for alchemy. During many visits with the old man at the behest of some unknown House, he covertly flexed his knowledge of the botanical arts. They would spend afternoons discussing topics ranging from the Chantry’s shortsighted views of their trade to esoteric toxins only recently discovered from the far corners of the world. Zevran spied on the men through the grated opening between the rooms. He knew he should be reading in the archive, but he could not help himself. Derek was the first man who seemed to possess the same understanding of a floraesen without the tutorship behind him.

When he discovered the nature of the mark, Zevran demanded to join, if for nothing else to search for any useful drift he might pilfer from his estate. Taliesen flatly declined, instead offering an alternative errand within the City that reported back to the Guild Master under a prompt decree. A vicious shouting match ensued before the young man finally forced himself to walk away before the argument escalated to blows.

He felt the floorboard creek and suddenly there was a small thud of an object falling onto the table next to the copper lantern. Zevran peeked beneath of arc of his fingers pinned at his brow to see the binding of a thin book, tiny golden lettering meandering down the spine. It read: Elixirs of the Northern Empire by Master Naheeme of Guidain.

“This errand, it should have been ours,” Taliesen began, the hesitance in his voice lost to a bolstering frustration as he plucked up the courage to continue, “But you have been so reckless! What am I do?”

He shrugged, “You do what you always have done.”

“Neh, what does that mean?”

A quarrel was looming and the young man could feel his patience snap. Zevran pulled back from the table to hug his knees, daring to glare up at the housemaster from the comfort of the floor as he snipped, “Neh does my wit or candor affect you so when it suits. Surely my effort has saved us on more than one occasion.”

“Nigh is that the point, Zev.”

He snorted, “Of course, by Andraste’s luck.”

“You think yourself clever?” He hissed, straightening as he waved a hand emphatically, “Should I forget that you abandon our brethren for company of the Kilne? Neh, that rat bastard fills your head with the sour breath of a mad dog!”

“Ignasio?” Zevran questioned, dismissing him with a huff of distaste as he returned to face the window, “Neh blame my ways on another housemaster. You see contempt in his duty, is all.”

“You put the crest of a rival House on your brow!” Taliesen roared and Zevran swiveled back as the housemaster approached in his heated fury. The man fumed, “What were you thinking?! Did you believe I am too daft to see?”

The young man squinted in anger, but he was cut off before he could reply as the housemaster leaned down, jaw clenched, voice little more than a growl, “Or did you think me too distracted by your dally with a merchant’s wife!”

Heat reached his cheeks, and for a moment, Zevran tongue would not cooperate. Taliesen straightened again, turning back to stalk the length of the small room, mumbling to himself as he went.

“Mark me, it is as though you seek death!” Taliesen exclaimed after a prolonged silence.

“What do you want from me?” Zevran’s words were stronger than he imagined they would be as they nearly boomed throughout the loft, “For so long, I have obeyed your every wish, and for what! You see the favor in my sacrifice while I still take neh better than the scraps of a Hound!”

The outburst successfully stunned the man, and Taliesen stilled. He uttered a baffled reply, “How can you say such? It is _we_ who have triumphed against all odds. It is _we_ who glean the Guild’s favor!”

“Eh? For what little Gynn can stomach my company,” Zevran replied more quietly, “And at what cost for this grand prize? Yours or mine?”

“Maker’s breath,” the man stuttered, “She was a girl. Yes, you loved her, but I warned you!”

The acknowledgement felt like a slap in the face, but Taliesen was not done.

“I tried to help you, but neh would listen to me!” The housemaster implored as though he might kneel down before his friend in some desperate appeal for forgiveness, “I have done everything to foster your care in my heart. And yet even now again I caution you the same, and again you reject me! And for what – a dally who nigh can see beyond her own nose save for the pretty face her husband lets wander, or a House who would bring you down with them if it meant their coveted ascension in the eyes of their masters?!”

He was caught, and the young man felt a tightness overwhelm his chest. Taliesen had been following him, watching him, and the notion frightened Zevran as much as it reinforced his anger for the lack of trust that must have carried both ways.

“You are blind!” Taliesen bit out between his teeth, brows knit hard onto wide eyes, “Zev, you must wake up before it is too late.”

The young man shook his head slowly, bile rising in his throat. How could he trust anything this man said to him after all that he had done? He knew of Rinna’s origin, her intentions all along. Even if Rinna understood the gravity of her parentage, she sought to free her brother from a debtor’s prison. What hope would she ever have had to a claim, even if she knew of such? Perhaps Taliesen’s plan leaned to her demise from the start too for all the young man knew. If Eoman’s words were to be believed. He used Zevran’s distraction as an opportunity and claimed the reward, blamed his colleague too overcome by grief to process his part in the affair at all.

His words were quiet, a veiled calm over the treble in his voice, “The House, the Talon worry for you, Zevran. I can only do so much to hide it, lest they question my intent as well.”

The young man barked out an ironic laugh, “Neh a thing I do matters.”

“It matters to me!” The housemaster shouted in exasperation and the room felt heavy with his anguish. Zevran scowled, Taliesen’s expression became confused, worried as he rushed his accusation.

“You are a liar.”

Unwelcomed tears reached his eyes as the young man forced himself to hold back the rest of what he truly desired to say. Taliesen was a liar, and Zevran was given the worst gift. A false hope.

There was a choked silence between the pair, the housemaster waffling over how to respond from the corner he retreated to. Eventually, he closed his eyes in his plea, “I am trying to look after you.”

“You only look after yourself,” Zevran turned away then, running a hand through his hair and sighing in resignation. No longer could he listen to such fabrications. Perhaps their friendship too was just the same. He barely registered the housemaster’s footsteps leave him to his thoughts.


	39. Part Five Chapter Seven

After his confrontation with Taliesen, Zevran decided upon two things. First, he would continue to dig his heals and rebel in the only manner he knew how. The spite that built up inside him was directed at the housemaster alone, and so the more difficult he could make Taliesen’s life, the better in his mind. Second, he was going to find a way out of the mess he created, even if the attempt killed him. The life of a Crow was no life he wished to lead. He convinced himself that if he just worked hard enough and proved his worth among the many, he could command his fortune. But that was a dream, a delusion no more attainable than the long contentious claim to the throne of Antiva in the eyes of his betters. And so, instead, the young man was planning another route to his own mastery.

Escape.

How he was going to achieve such a feat remained unclear, though even the thought of running caused tension in his heart enough to drive him from his bed. The Guild was particularly cruel to those who defected. The announced bounties could compel entire Houses to hunt a single individual, returned alive if possible, and handed over to the Velabanchel for a slow execution. The tales that emerged from these errands were enough to keep the majority in their place, it seemed.

Perhaps this was one of the reasons why there were so many rebellions within the Crows over the ages. Rival factions that desired change would rather risk war on their own Talon than face the racks of the Tower. It was a more fitting death to be assassinated by their own men than be allowed to suffer at the hands of a system they despised. And yet, those who did survive these perilous coups rose to power in the most infamous ways, eventually becoming legends all their own, only to repeat the cycle they supposedly wished to bring down upon the masses they were meant to lead. What a pity.

With this newfound direction, Zevran focused on the tasks at hand. He chose different routes to find his way to House Stil, and because he knew Tern better than most, the convoluted paths would certainly lose those who dared follow. Taliesen was not one to waste his money hiring a porter for something he could do himself. The young man felt assured of his safety so long as he could outsmart his old sparring partner.

Isabela was a different concern, however. While she was good company, the young man was starting to recognize that it might be best if he pulled back from her attention. The housemaster was right when he implied the woman was blind to her own whims. Her husband, who may have allowed to her stray if it meant the socialite stayed out of his hair, must have noticed her absence over so many months. It was equally probable that Luis Mele had not fully grasped where his wife was going night after night. Should he discover that the woman was philandering with Crow members without care, Zevran would surely suffer the consequences long before Isabela ever saw a threatening hand to her cheek.

Yet, to see the woman in tears now brought out a cold wrath Zevran did not think he possessed. The woman paced around their secret room in the tavern, the paint around eyes streaking dark, jagged lines down her reddened cheeks. She held one hand shakily over her mouth, taking long, shuddering breaths.

Isabela was in hysterics. The extreme reaction was quite a sight for Zevran, as he had always observed the woman composed, savvy and filled with a dark humor no matter the juicy rumor or dire circumstance.

“He is going to kill me.”

Isabela looked to Zevran then, her voice hoarse as she repeated her statement again and again, withering into herself in the middle of the room. He moved forward to stop her, and the woman collapsed against his shoulder.

“I must escape!”

“Tell me, my dear,” he began, moving Isabela to the cot to kneel in front of her. He studied her carefully, “what has happened?”

The woman swallowed, another tear slipping down her cheek. She implored him, “You must help me.”

He grimaced, “I will do whatever I can, but first you must tell me. Has someone hurt you?”

The room fell quiet as Isabela pursed her lips and clucked her tongue, sifting for the words. Zevran could feel how her shoulders quaked, and the motion disturbed him. After a few more lingering moments, the woman closed her eyes, inhaling deeply before she focused her attention on the young man again, “I found a letter. Well, I read all his letters, mostly out of boredom, but this one looked different.”

Zevran quirked a brow, and prodded, “How so?”

“It had a seal I nigh recognized,” she supplied, rounding her fingers to display the size of the emblem, “The Shaal was stamped on the parchment, and I know that one. The seal was like the Chantry, yet nigh the same. The sun held a feather at its center, plume faced down.”

The Vancor and Chantry, Zevran understood. Each organization was comprised of several Houses in the City, all which carried similar insignias with unique characteristics to depict which sector they belonged. The Vancor authorized all business agreements in Antiva, archived drafts of those documents, and carried courts for those who desired to contest current and past contracts. The Chantry was an even larger body, carrying the call of the Maker across all the known lands of Thedas. There were so many symbols adorning those who followed that Order, a trained eye was required to distinguish them.

Isabela was past the subtleties of such things. She exclaimed, drawing the young man back to her, “Luis grows tired of me. He is going to kill me, I know it!”

“Did the letter say this?”

“Well, no. The letter inquired of our marriage, and of me, and of some bloody agreement passed by some noble I care little about!” She paused, searching her partner’s eyes for hints of sympathy. When all she met was confusion, she blustered, “Neh will he free me with my due! I have asked for years, and been denied all the same. And while he has his affairs as boldly as brothel whores, I must stand aside as the good wife, the pretty prize! What about what I desire?! The selfish bastard would dispose his troubles than see another one moment of happiness.”

“How do you know his plan is to dispose of you?” Zevran questioned, causing the woman to balk. Casually, he tugged on her sleeves and cajoled, “He may wish to send you to a convent in that letter, for all you know.”

“A fate worse than death then, I am sure!” she bellowed. Leaning forward, she grasped desperately at his forearm, “Zev, please, you must help me!”

He blinked, further puzzled by the gesture before his senses caught onto the deeper meaning. He ventured a guess, “You want me to kill him for you?”

“Yes,” Isabela nodded emphatically, her golden eyes blown wide in her craze, “With him gone, I can flee on one of his ships. I know all the porters, the shipmen here. They would take me aboard with neh a question.”

Zevran lurched back, wrenching his arm away from the woman in sudden alarm. But Isabela persisted as she reached out in heartfelt need, her voice more determined, “I know all the pirate routes he uses North and South. I’ve studied them! His fleet is the most powerful in all the Bay – nigh is there a way they could catch me once I am beyond the port.”

“Are you mad?” Zevran backed away until he felt the wall at his back, his face pulled closed in disgust as he contemplated just what exactly Isabela was asking of him.

There was silence, and then she offered, “You could come too – seek your freedom with me! It is what you desire more than anything, yes?”

The young man stilled.

“The Crows neh more the cowl on your back?”

He shivered, with rage, fear, or exhilaration, he could no longer tell the difference. Many times they joked about freedom and what that meant to each other from the comfort of thin, tattered blankets. They both lived in prisons of sorts. Perhaps that was what drove them into each other’s arms in the first place, but he dared not think on it too long. For now, all thoughts landed onto a single, crystalline answer.

“No.”

The distant tinkering and laughter of the tavern patrons emanated through the walls, tempering the harshness of Zevran’s reply. And at first Isabela seemed unaffected, as though she had not truly heard him, until her facade dropped into one of sorrowful shock.

“No?” She nearly wailed, “But, why?”

“Nigh do you even see what you have,” a sneer etched his usually carefree profile, and it was an expression uncharacteristic of the man he portrayed himself to be. Zevran bristled, glancing around the room before deriding, “How dare you ask me to waste it!”

Isabela snapped her jaw shut, sniffing a high-pitched rebuttal, “See what I have?!”

The bile again rose in his throat, and it was all the young man could do to spit out his thoughts in a rush of emotion that culminated from far more than her audacious request, “All your comfort, your excess, for what, eh? You slip out in the dead of night for a wish with neh a clue of the life you lead. You squander your fortune like a spoilt child!”

With that, the fire that he adored so much in the woman was surfacing, yet Zevran was quick to shut her down, “Your freedom, on a ship? Do you even know the sail, or do you truly believe becoming the window of a smuggler will prove your worth?”

“Neh presume you know me!” Isabela shot back, her form straightening as she shifted onto her knees on the cot. Heatedly, she motioned to him, her voice an insecure anger to match his own, “I thought you would grasp me, what with all your clever talk!”

Zevran ignored the stab, slipping a disdainful tisk and ranting, “Neh is this a life those in Tern would live if given choice, and here you begging for it!”

“Nigh would I ever beg the likes of you!” She shouted, biting her lower lip afterward in sudden acknowledgement of her transgression. Hard pairs of eyes bore into each other, and she countered, “What, would a contract to the Vancor be in order to command such respect then?”

Stunned silence captured them, Zevran at an utter loss. Was this whole affair one of convenience then? He should not have minded. In fact, the contest of barbs and insults was nothing new when it was traded as foreplay between card games and wrestling the paring knife from each other. But the young man’s patience for being used was at its end. After a stretched standoff, he nodded only once and hastened for the exit.

The door was half open when Isabela cried out, “Wait, please!”

It was the despair in her voice that caught him off guard, and Zevran halted in the entryway only as a courtesy for the woman to come up with something meaningful to say.

“Nigh do you know him,” Isabela softened her tone, and when the young man finally turned back, he saw her normally insolent posturing to have slumped into a concave, mournful repose. Isabela sat curled up on the cot again, her long arms hugging herself as she peered into the lantern on table at her side. She muttered more to herself, for he only barely heard her, “Nigh had I any more choice to come here than you a Crow all these years.”

Andraste’s luck, Zevran wanted to say, but the woman’s expression only darkened, and he could tell she was earnestly trying to bite back tears. Perhaps she did not want to look weak in front of him for how manic she was just moments ago. Surely Isabela had far better luck to have her finery at all, let alone the freedom and will to defy it.

But reacting severely over her self-destructive nature was not fair either, he considered. After all, the young man was just as complicit in her actions by carrying on their affair. He made their pillowed reveries sound fantastical even to his own ears as he spun tales of adventures only half-invented beyond the borders of Dockside. It was not unreasonable to think he had some fault in her want to seek him out to rectify her imagined problem too.

After a moment, Isabela sat back up and collected herself as best she could, smoothing out her clothing and wiping away the stains on her face with the back of her hand. Zevran closed the door again and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, waiting for her to speak, trying to decide if he had anything worthy to retort.

“My mother,” she began, her voice far calmer than at the height of their argument. “She was a charlatan, and a very good one. She could sell a beggar his clothes with all his coin to spare.”

The pair made brief eye contact when she added offhandedly, “She and I were to be the same.”

Zevran narrowed his gaze, steeling himself for one of _her_ stories. Isabela was the type for dramatics. So much so that her tall tales could rival even the best boastings of the Salty Brood. Still, the look in her eyes stopped his immediate dismissal as the woman cleared her throat and turned back to the lantern for support.

“We would travel the small towns, port to port, my mother posing as a seer from the Old Order,” Isabela shrugged, her lips twitching at the conjured memories, “Of course she nigh was a mage, but neh anyone questions anything as long as their needs are met, “she then tapped her forefinger in the air for emphasis, “And sure, everyone says they follow the Chantry, but that is just some grand story too.”

Zevran remained quiet, leaning against the wall.

After a pause, the woman continued, “We spent all our time on the coast, bartering shipmen cots in exchange for their fortune in the deck of cards she carried. I learned how to pull rope there, on those ships, with men three times my age and half again my size. But they nigh minded. Women, to them, are good luck. There is a Rivaini saying the sailors take true,” she shimmied her shoulders in a proud dance as she tilted her chin up, “‘A woman brings home to the man.’ And it is true! We are damn well better at navigating the shore.”

Her expression relaxed as she recalled, “Our life was a good life.”

“Nigh did it last,” Zevran suggested after another moment of silence.

Isabela laughed, a piece of her fiery persona rekindling, “I fancied one day disappearing on a ship, finding my own adventure, but all that was laid waste when my mother took to the Qun.”

At this, the young man cocked his head, swiftly gaining interest in the story. As proud as she was, Isabela was notably shy about sharing her childhood. When asked, she would say that she was bought and paid for, but little else about her home, her family, or her circumstances. Zevran long believed that she was born either into abject poverty or sheltered wealth for all her bloviating. She strove so hard to be alongside those far below her station that her actions seemed devious.

Isabela was immune to his insight, however, now too caught up in the animosity of her past, “Seemed she bought her own fibs over a man she met near Llomerryn. I hated him. He had a tongue of silver, and I knew they were all lies.”

“He was Qunari?” Zevran smirked, wondering how a Shem and the horned beasts to the North could even fathom a coupling. They were giant men, built like bulls with fierce temperaments when provoked. The Qun itself was composed of a strict hierarchical society driven by an unwavering sense of duty. Very little literature was available in the archive of the old Master, but the young man picked up enough to know that the Qun and Chantry philosophies did not mix well.

“Neh, he was Shem too. Converted, I imagine. There is quite the following in Rivaine,” Isabela chuckled and shook her head, “He convinced my mother that she could settle in comfort as long as she lost her wandering ways. He was going to take her to the far North, and I was to follow, nigh with question.”

“You took issue with this union?”

“Of course, I argued. She barely knew the man more than moon.” Isabela rolled her eyes, “Must have been a grand sacking. I could tell he disliked me too because I saw his true nature. He was just like us and he was going fleece her for all our worth!”

Zevran chewed his cheek and wondered where she was planned to take her fable, “So this man your mother fell for sold you to have his way?”

“Neh, listen!” Isabela issued a cutting glare and the young man snorted, moving to take a seat on one of the many crates in the room. Once he was settled, the woman resumed, “My mother converted and discarded her self, handed me the deck of cards and told me to burn them,” she displayed her palms to him with an agitated shake, “I wanted to strangle her! I was of age – I could have left. I had the mind to! But that man was going to take her, and my choice,” she mouthed with a mocking tone, “was to convert to their stupid way of life.”

With that, a frustrated growl escaped her.

“Do you even known what that is like?” She thundered, leaping from the cot and pacing the scant amount of floor between them, “I rather become a Chantry nun for all the freedom it would give me! Neh more could I sail – a woman’s home is the hearth as far as my worth would carry there. What was I to do?”

The young man observed her, the feverish expression returning to Isabela’s face as she repeatedly clenched her fists. He hummed, more curious than concerned, “What did you do?”

“Well, the Maker has quite the sense of humor, yes?” Isabela whipped back to face him, a sardonic grin stretching her full lips, “We were set to leave, but I was slipping nibs to the sailors portside so I could steal passage on a merchant vessel that just arrived.”

She straightened, holding out an arm elegantly as though she might describe the grandness of the crate to her side, “And there, on the bow was this man, all poised and posh, far too well dressed for even the captain to consider,” then the woman paused, taken aback in mock fear, “And he saw me, and I panicked! Fled all the way back to the village my mother and that bastard were holed up in.”

Zevran rested his chin onto an upright knee and prompted, “He followed, yes?”

Isabela nodded purposefully with a hand on her hip, drawling, “I pretended I was on some errand for the farmhand that fancied me, and neh thought of it again until a pack of stuffy merchants appeared in the square two days later. What a faff that was! The streets filled like those shiny parades down the Golden Mile!”

With theatrical flare, she mimed each character in turn, “That man I saw was Luis Mele, and he somehow found my mother. Nigh did she know who he was, but he was rich, and all his effort set her eyes sparkling. He made mention of me, and I nearly bolted. I thought I was caught and he was there to demand payment for my attempt to smuggle onto his ship!”

“Yes, and then?”

Isabela grunted, “I was sent away, and when I returned, I was informed I would go to Antiva with this man.”

So, she had been sold, or traded, or discarded. A tentative pause caught the woman as she thought out how to conclude her monologue, and Zevran took the time to decipher her disgruntled appearance against the frantic scene he encountered when he first arrived. She seemed convinced the merchant would want her dead, all for the sin of flouting her privilege. If she never wanted the marriage in the first place, it seemed somewhat surprising that Isabela would wait so long to leave again, given her wit and skill she just confided. Was the comfort that Luis Mele provided enough to keep her, even if only for a moment? Or was all this just a ruse to play her own game on her husband?

Eventually, Isabela did find her voice, her tone subtly less impudent than before, “Perhaps my mother believed I would be happy with the decision for all my protest, but neh did she understand. Neh did anyone even bother to inquire! I wanted choice to leave or to stay, nigh be told by some man who I barely knew or cared for.”

Zevran lifted his chin and speculated, “Suppose she nigh had choice with your refusal to leave with her. She thought this the better option, yes?”

“You know what I really believe?” The woman sneered, her stare sharp and clear as she spat, “Neh did she care – the coin in her pocket spoke more than any love for her child.”

“Neh, you choose to be critical, is all,” he challenged and Isabela turned away.

“She knew exactly what I would do!” She gave a derisive tisk and glanced back, “She kept me under lock until Luis fetched me. Neh did it matter my cries or how much I could throw at that door. On a ship South I went, all my dreams unspent cargo.”

It was then the young man could see the hate in her eyes, as raw as an unguarded as his own. Before him stood a woman poised like a viper, wrath radiating brightly, and it astonished Zevran that he never saw it before. Isabela may have effortlessly played the enchanting hostess with little respect for her place in society, but inside, defying her luxury amounted to something far more sinister. Revenge.

The spite she carried was garnered for one man alone, and the more difficult she made Luis Mele’s life the better. Suddenly, Zevran lost all malice in his opinion. He had no place to judge this woman, for his actions as of late were little better as far as his House was concerned.

The pair found themselves in a standoff again. When the silence became uncomfortable, Isabela sat back down on the cot and admitted, “You are right. Surely, I have found fortune for all my mother’s careless exchange. Luis is kind to me when it suits him. He might have even cared for me once.”

But it was not enough. To be told how to live, never mind the alternative, was difficult to accept. Isabela did all she could do as an Antivan woman to find her freedom by requesting that her husband divorce her, and she was denied in the end. There were few options for women, even of her status; fewer still for those who lacked a family on which to rely.

“He has given me comforts and tutors and a fine cage to call my home,” the woman sighed, waving a hand around the space, “But, neh was there ever a day I desired to be here, and neh was there a day he ever listened. So I am ignored, cast aside like some old toy.”

Zevran felt deflated, perturbed by the truth. If the letter she described meant anything, at a minimum, she was going to lose what little freedom she possessed. Isabela was keen to affirm this notion.

“If I have I learned anything over the years,” she said quietly, renewed focus on the lantern to her side, “it is that toys for wealthy of lords are disposable as their splendor fades with age, neh mention I lack an heir. Nigh can I find a way out now, nigh will I find a way at all.”

Zevran straightened out his legs, balancing himself on the edge of the crate. Isabela’s options were to acquiesce or rebel, and she was asking him for help. And the young man had the means to help her, if he chose to do so. The small vial in his vest could attest to his skill; the poison Ignasio requested so many weeks prior. The visit to the Kilne was originally intended for House Stil, but as luck would have him, the housemaster was absent from his usual spot at the low table with his entourage in tow.

The young man had struggled with whether to provide the tincture at all, knowing his gamble. Yet, risk was as part of his life as his desire for freedom from the noose of circumstance. House Stil offered a massive amount of gold in return for this vial, enough to make Zevran question where they could afford such coffers. The poison was probably intended for someone else, the errand to procure it with payment.

Now before him was an alternative. To give Isabela the vial would carry little benefit for Zevran other than to know she would be set free. Truly free for as long as she could manage. Of course, a contract would be raised over the murder of one of Valisti’s close allies and the woman would be hunted beyond the corners of their fair kingdom, but his involvement would be missed in all of the chaos. And the danger that kept the young man awake would be abated over the gold in his pocket.

Was she worth his wasted effort?

There was no sense of undying endearment between Zevran and Isabela, but the idea of someone achieving some manner of freedom was, in a way, its own reward. The vindictive glee that rose in his heart at this thought was enough to spur the young man into action.

Isabela peered over when she heard her guest stir from his spot in the corner and approach her. Zevran sat on the cot by her side and tugged at his vest. His tone was nonchalant, more typical of the man she knew, though the Crow refused to meet her eyes as he voiced his thoughts, “You would truly forsake all this for your freedom, my dear?”

Her reply again caught him unready, “I would burn this City to the ground, were my choice.”

Zevran turned to Isabela. Gone was the crass leer, wiped away with the remnant streaks of paint smeared across her cheeks, replaced with the somber line of her lips. Her sincerity caused the young man to smile freely, offering a chuckle as he leaned in and kissed the woman. The embrace was thoughtful, knowing. He would never see her again.

Zevran kept Isabela close as he pulled back and slipped the vial into her palm, whispering the words in all their gravity, “Neh did this come from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I find Isabela’s backstory to be fairly interesting, though I take her cannon with a giant grain of salt. She tells several varying accounts throughout DA. This is simply one of them.


	40. Part Five Chapter 8

He stood motionless before the simple plaster building deep in the heart of the City. The afternoon bustled with people. Messengers scurried along their tortuous circuits between Houses as traders called an early dinner among the various tents that lined the narrow road, chatting with patrons who visited this part of the Merchant District for one sole purpose.

The front gate had a delicate pergola. The Antivan prose that was carved into the stone had long since eroded over many years of exposure to the elements. The white stucco still retained its luster though, and lush vines covered one side of the high wall capped with bright red tile. No sigils adorned the entry, but then again, none were necessary.

The Palme was well known among many as one of the finest brothels in the City.

Under the archway Zevran entered, and a woman greeted him in the front garden separating the street from the main building. She was a petite, pretty thing with large eyes and plump, rosy cheeks. The pair exchanged warm smiles as she ushered him inside without a word.

“What may you,” an older woman voiced beyond a large filigree screen that obscured the foyer. She was draped in a deep red shawl that seemed overly heavy given the waning summer heat. The equinox just passed, yet the weather had not given up the swelter for a cooler coastal breeze. Her dark hair was spun into a loose bun pinned closed by a feathered wreath around her crown, which only accentuated the paleness of her skin and height of her long brow against coal, owlish eyes. Given enough time, Zevran might have pressed the woman to discover if she was half-Daedric, but his thoughts were cut short as her expression turned stern.

“Nigh am I here to deliver a parcel, Lady,” Zevran corrected with a lazy grin as though this was all that was to be said.

She blinked, glancing over the young man, and her disposition changed. Straightening her shoulders, the woman’s profile smoothed into a relaxed facade as she motioned them farther into the open space lined with cushioned benches. The room was empty as far as he could tell as he took a seat near the far edge against the wall. Heady incense laced the room, and Zevran looked up to see the ceiling curve into a fanned steeple that mimicked the main hall of the Chantry. He realized then that the establishment must be massive for all the detail implied.

The Madame snapped her fingers, the sound echoing out into the room, and with swift direction, a sampling of port and cheese appeared on a low table in front the young man. She gave a minor bow and inquired meekly, “What is it you desire, Crow?”

Zevran stilled for a moment, peering over through groomed flaxen bangs as he reached for the cup provided to him. The assumption was rather astute given his lack of urgency and open swagger. His clothing, dark linen fitted into his leather vest, soft and clean from recent tending, and trousers tucked neatly into calf-cut boots, made a bold statement. He was neither a porter nor a beggar, but a man of his own standing. Still, few would believe any Daedric a merchant, even fewer a housemaster.

The young man was not about to let such suppositions dictate his request. He sipped the port and gave a satisfied sigh, contemplating more to ease his own anxiety, “Young, I think. Daedric. Dark hair.”

If the Madame was insulted by his answer, she did not show it. After all, a Crow had his Courtesan as his paramour. Brothels were meant for merchants and travellers. She gifted a serene smile and bowed again before disappearing farther into the building.

What was he doing here? Zevran’s internal monologue warred with itself over his choices as of recent days. So quick was he to separate himself from Isabela that his first night alone in the attic set him into a fit. He imagined Taliesen’s firm tone lecturing how he should make a pointed visit to Sinette after his unduly long absence. If he but asked for forgiveness, she would offer him the comfort he was seeking. Her nature was patient, mild. She would understand, and she would help him find sleep. Yet to his chagrin, the idea of returning to the Courtesans, even after a year, only managed to turn his stomach more, and the young man sat restless at his desk for many nights before he finally lost his resolve.

He needed a distraction away from the stifling walls of House Arnii and its housemaster. He needed to find respite from his nightmares.

However, a visit to the Palme was much more than a frivolous escapade to a brothel, Zevran knew. He could not help the troubling sense in the pit of his stomach that decried he was making a mistake.

A line of young Daedric women paraded into the center of the room before the low table where the young man sat. The Madame was at the head, and she poised herself to introduce each servant in turn.

“I am sure we have what you require,” she said with another polite smile, and the young man swept over the medley from the comfort of his cushion. To form, the Madame supplied his request, all young, lithe, and beautiful with masses of dark hair styled into tumbling curls. Dressed similarly in light blue silk, their thin centers were bound with golden braided cords and tassels. The women featured fair to tawny complexions and varied in height, yet Zevran was far keener to observe their character. A few stared at him straight on, curious and daring, as though they had seen as much of the world as he had and still chose not to waiver. Others paid little attention, more interested in the room than in him. He could admire the obstinacy as a reflection of his own, and perhaps on any other day he might have found himself challenging one of them. Instead, he paused his perusal on a small woman, her face blank as she trained green almonds onto the floor. Her dark hair was sleek, profile fine, and if he deigned look on her too long, the young man feared she might look up and call him out on his crimes.

Against his will, his heart began to race, and the voice in the back of Zevran’s mind called for him to leap from his spot and flee the place entirely. The woman remained still, and after a stretched silence, he calmed himself enough to realize the dream for what it was. Subtly, he cleared his throat and pointed, telling the Madame, “She will suit.”

“Nya is surely one of the finest consorts on offer,” the older woman approved. She tipped her head down to make her subtle point, “have you coin, of course.”

A small snicker escaped Zevran as he reached into his vest and pulled out two sovereigns. Slipping the coins under his index and middle finger, he leaned forward, a charismatic lilt to his voice as he confirmed, “For the evening.”

The Madame stared at the table for an instant too long, and Zevran half-wondered if she might have taken the gesture poorly. He offered too high of a bid, which for any Antivan was a risk. There was a fine line between paying what was due and throwing away good money. No woman in the City was worth two sovereigns except for those who associated with the Onesta, and even then the Courtesans never parleyed in gold. But that was not the point. Showcasing excess wealth meant respect and privacy, both he was willing to purchase, if necessary. The gamble was whether the Lady of the House would see his social caste alone as reason to throw him out.

The brief moment of tension was overstated, though. The Madame gave a dispassionate nod and snapped her fingers again, the women dispersing just as quickly as they came. 

A room was prepared and before Zevran realized it, the same young woman he met in the garden escorted him down a long hallway on the second floor to a private veranda all his own. Refreshment was already set on a table before the hearth. A wide chaise faced the balcony overlooking an atrium below filled with rose bushes that hugged the trunk of a white-bark tree, the canopy of which billowed toward the upper floors of the building. A spacious bed was central in the room, covered in crisp linen and puffy pillows. The scene was inviting, and the young man felt like he could collapse in exhaustion if he allowed himself.

Near the hearth the young woman stood, her minute form straight, her hands clasped at her back. Nya seemed shy, keeping herself still as she continued to stare down the stonework at her feet. Zevran could see her more clearly in the late afternoon light as the final rays of sun filtered the space in a warm glow. Her profile was delicate, soft and he could tell she was a good few years young than him. High cheeks were paired with a thin lips, and he felt relief drain him as he reaffirmed she held only a vague resemblance to Rinna. The relief quickly washed into longing then, and it was enough to keep him in an uneasy quandary between fulfilling his latent desires and leaving. 

As awkward as the silence had become, Zevran allowed himself to linger. His mind again ruptured with accusations about why he bothered to find this place at all. What understanding did he think he could gain? The conversation in early spring at the low table with Ignasio crept back to him. Amid the roar of the betting ring, the housemaster implied how deeply unfortunate it was the old man came for the young boy, how his fate would have been far different had some unknown House in the West acquired him. The Crow’s face flickered, wondering briefly the life his own mother must have led among these very rooms he was about to occupy. What would she have thought of him were she still alive to tell? 

There was little memory he could carry that was not already ripped from him. The young man turned toward the atrium and hummed, a self-conscience sound emitting as he divulged, “I was born in this brothel.”

The woman whipped up to him, wide eyes unable to hide her surprise. Zevran side-glanced, a smirk emerging as he motioned at the garden and continued, “I used to play in that tree, though it did seem so much grander when I was small.”

Nya was unable to see what he was referring to from the angle inside the room, but she followed his direction anyway, shifting back to him when he said, “I would ask something of you, and you are to be honest in your reply, yes?”

She nodded.

“Am I the first to seek your company?”

He watched her expression fall with the barest hint of despair, and he understood. A sense of pity punched him in the gut, and his mind screamed out how he should have remained in the attic at his desk.

“I see.”

Another stretched silence captured them, and Zevran mulled over his choice. He took several steps forward toward the table, plucking up two chalices and pouring a healthy serving of wine into each. The consort was about to intervene when he straightened and handed her one glass, inquiring, “How by did you come here?”

Nya fumbled with the cup, caught off guard by the question. Her lilt was smooth as her brows pinched, “Does that matter?”

“Neh,” Zevran flashed a disarming smile and chuckled, “I am curious and you are fair, my dear.”

They were close to each other near the fire, and he reached out to stroke a finger along her chin. A subtle flinch met him, and the Crow added in a sultry whisper, “This life must be far unlike what you imagined, yes?”

Large green pools searched for the meaning between his words, and in her scrutiny, he found a girl drowned by circumstance. Zevran came to his own conclusion then; she had no more choice in her life than he had. And perhaps his mother was the same, though he cleared away any remaining thought of her lest he ruined whatever could be salvaged from this ill-gotten journey into the past.

Zevran clinked their glass together and cupped her cheek in a loving manner. The young woman stiffened, but allowed him to place a kiss onto her forehead. The motion was kind as his words when he met her gaze again and suggested, “I could show you the way, if you but trust me.”

There was little point in seeking comfort where it was not offered, he realized. Such an act would prove himself an unfit lover he liked to believe himself to be. Yet, the realities they both faced were unfair, and so he would rather chance appearing weak if it meant she stayed. And if she declined, the two sovereigns would be spent sleeping and eating in comfort anyway, not entirely a loss. His worries were abated, thankfully, and the young man released the breath he was holding when the consort at last relaxed into his palm, the edges of her mouth lifting in consent.

House Arnii was gifted a new Convert, and Zevran was incensed.

To be fair, the young Shem looked like he felt out of a stable, little more than a boy all lanky and unkempt. He was too old to have come from a Hound den, not that Taliesen would have accepted him, but not quite old enough to complete a proper apprenticeship within a respected House.

Zevran discovered the newcomer upon his return early one morning. He had been away many days, fulfilling various requests for his brethren and spending his evenings at the Palme with his extra coin. As expected, the House was empty, and the young man set out to repair some of his garments wearing thin at the hemline. It was when he entered the back forum to retrieve well water that he was met with an uncomfortably familiar sight. The morning sun cast half the space in shadow and at the center stood the housemaster, shirtless and laughing. He was holding a long wooden stick, the point of which happily poked at the back of a boy lying in the dirt.

“Oy!” Taliesen looked up and cried out, his smile wider, truer than Zevran had seen in nearly a year, “We have company!”

The lad below groaned, and the housemaster renewed his prodding with the stick.

“Get up!”

“Who is this?” Zevran wasted no time addressing his comrade. The lad pulled himself onto his knees, biting an already bruised lip from some previous fall.

Taliesen’s tone darkened, despite his grin, “Were you here, you would know, friend.”

Zevran steeled himself for a quarrel, but the housemaster was already over it. Again, he nudged the lad to stand, ushering an explanation as he went, “Raul, this Zevran. Go on, present yourself! You will have much to learn from him, yes?”

Much to learn? The young man inspected this Raul, his naked shoulders pale and freckled. He had a narrow face and deep brown eyes half hidden by the ruffle of dark hair cropped at the round of his ears. The lad frowned when he peered up at Zevran, squaring himself uneasily in front of the housemember. The Crow huffed and decided to abandon his laundry for another day.

“Zev!” Taliesen shouted, the sound following up the stairs and into the loft where his grown ward disappeared. He chose to stay at the base of the ladder though, calling up to the young man again, “Nigh, hold your tongue any judgment. The boy comes from House Sagit as trade for Ren.”

Zevran appeared at the top of the opening and seethed, “Convenience is your luck then, yes?”

The housemaster grunted before returning with more venom, “Apprenticeship is part of our duty as a House!”

“And what skill does he have on offer, eh?!”

“Why do you care?” Taliesen said, flabbergasted, “Little more, you have deserted me out of some bitter pride you still possess. What would you have me do?!”

The pair stood heaving at the opposite ends of the ladder, ready to lash out over some unspoken betrayal. Zevran caught himself before he could give a scarring response, unsure why he was so angry in the first place. There was a boy in the forum. A boy so similar a reflection of his own nine years prior. And although those long, painful days were a distant memory, the young man could not help but believe the comradery nurtured from those hard-won lessons were his own. They were not to be shared with another. 

“You should accept this,” Taliesen pointed the blunted tip of the sparring stick at Zevran, a crinkle around his eyes matching the fury in his warning, “Andraste’s favor follows the conviction of better men.”

Zevran kept to himself and whatever errands were given to him after that. The autumn festivals began again, and with them the City came alive. The young man chose to ignore much of the delights, the betting rings, the parades, and instead focused on the handful of distractions left at his disposal. One of the few blessings left, Izeek and Nabul were still good sources of entertainment, and the trio heckled all of the travellers that happened into their stalls. 

“Have you heard?” Izeek chimed over his mead one afternoon. 

Zevran nudged up from his crouch at the base of the stall, Nabul at his side stabilizing one of the wooden beams in need of repair. Together, they spent the better part of the day attempting to rewrap the heavy woven covering that finally snapped from a strong gust of wind.

“Nigh mind,” the older brother waved dismissively from above, “he seeks stray rumors.”

“Neh stray!” the younger brother objected, refocusing on the young man as he righted himself, “The whole of Tern knows.”

Zevran chortled and grabbed the cup from Izeek as payment for his good deed, “And what did you find?”

“A ship was stolen!”

“A ship,” both echoed in tandem, exchanging glances. Zevran’s stomach fell, and he kept the cup at his lips to hide the surfacing grimace.

“Aye,” Izeek nodded gravely. “In the dead of night, nigh with notice, a merchant vessel sailed beyond the Bay.”

“Who could manage such?” Nabul was incredulous as he frowned, pulling out his fan with the flick of his wrist. Curiosity got the better of him quickly enough, “Which ship?”

“One of the Falicisima!” Izeek was quick to fill in, and the answer sent a shock through the young man, “They say it was the Siren’s Call.”

The older brother laughed and shook his head, intoning his disapproval with a knowing glare, “Fear for the poor sailors caught in the noose of their master’s scheme then, yes?”

Isabela. Zevran took some time to think as he looked out onto the market stalls lining the narrow road. Down a side alley, he caught a glimpse of pristine sails neatly wrapped around their masts. The azure sea seemed all together too bright.

“Do they know who?” He heard himself ask. It was summer the last time he saw the defiant woman, and since that fateful evening, Zevran avoided the Kilne, offering House Stil their goods at the Hound den instead. Ignasio did not seem to mind, although he still occasionally queried if the young man had interest in more obscure requests. He politely declined.

“Aye, someone knows,” Izeek confirmed, but sniffed his disappointment soon after, “Nigh will they say. There was a coup in the Merchant District too – I wonder if they are the same!”

“A Crow’s errand, perhaps,” Zevran interjected, finishing the mead and returning the cup to its owner. With a smile, he excused himself.

He needed to think. The young man ventured back to the House, climbing the stairs two at a time to ensure his privacy. Once at the landing, he passed the housemaster’s quarters in quick strides only to be caught by a low whistle. Zevran halted and closed his eyes in sincere hope he imagined the noise. But then, a creak snapped up from the floorboards behind him, and when he finally looked back, he saw the small figure of Raul peeking out from one side of the entry. Beyond him stood Taliesen, his expression grim.

“Zevran,” the housemaster said, his tone as flat as the stare he leveled at his old friend. “I need to speak with you.”

The young man turned back with a sigh, sauntering to the doorway and leaning against the frame. The Convert backed into the room, standing uncomfortably between the pair as they conferred in a silent duel. Zevran was the first to cave, returning his pout to the lad.

Taliesen took his opportunity to dig, “The tib is that you now have dally at the Palme.”

“Somehow, I think you care more about my dallies than I do,” Zevran snorted around his rebuttal, “It is all you talk about.”

“What housemaster would I be were I nigh mindful of my men?”

“Only when it suits!” He countered, turning back down to gift his own opinion at the lad now very focused on the floor between them, “You see, first he found me too taken with them! Women are captivating creatures you may one day realize. Yet, when one snared me, nigh did he approve.”

“Zev, enough.”

The reprimand caused the young man to leer as he continued in sardonic cheer, “Now that she is gone and I nigh return to our favored Courtesans, he yet nips at my tail in all his fancy.” He turned up to the housemaster then, adding subversively, “Please do make up your mind.”

“Wait for me in the forum,” Taliesen told the lad, though his hard glare remained on his colleague. The Convert bound from the room, leaving the pair to continue their spiteful standoff. 

Without warning, Taliesen rendered an open-palmed blow across Zevran’s face, and the young man lurched to one side to find his balance. In shock, he turned back to the housemaster, who had already backed away to lean over his desk. He issued a quiet command, “Close the door.”

The young man complied but chose to stand his ground rather than head toward his usual corner. When housemaster straightened himself, his profile appeared strained as he glanced out the window slats onto the street below.

“I heard a curious thing today,” Taliesen muttered, his brows further tightening as he turned back to his comrade, “Perhaps you can help me.”

Blood began to drip from his nose, and his cheek burned. Zevran rolled his jaw tightly, preparing for the confrontation.

“I will ask only once,” Taliesen held up a long, empty glass vial, growling, “Did this come from the House of Arnii?”

He twitched to the object, a jolt of adrenaline flushing him with dread. The decorative vial was the same as the one he gave Isabela, and so the rumors Izeek retold must have been true. Luis Mele was dead, his prized ship stolen, and House Valisti was most likely rushing to uncover all those involved. An unsanctioned murder, no Crow would be able to escape from the Guild’s wrath. And the seriousness in Taliesen’s eyes was a clear indication that he was unable to hide the truth from his betters. Zevran had been caught. 

A line formed on his lips as he casually shifted to the housemaster again, “What if it is?”

The vial was gone and in its place was a dagger. Zevran was shoved so hard into the wall that he felt himself lifted off his feet. The tip of the blade jutted precariously into his throat, and panic bloomed as his once cherished friend now held a scowl so evil he failed to recognize it.

“Maker mark me, I will cut the lie from your throat!”

With panic came a strange resolve, though. Desperately, Zevran tilted into the blade, and the ensuing sting felt like he was excising an aged, infected wound. He demanded, “Do it! You believe them, yes?”

Just as suddenly, the icy expression melted into one of terror. Taliesen subtly pulled away, but Zevran leaned into the pressure, daring him to follow through with his threat. The housemaster recoiled then, the dagger dropping to the floor in a muted clatter.

Zevran gasped at a lost breath as he instinctively buckled over, hand at his neck. Shaky fingers dabbed at the wound that was not quite deep enough. When the young man drew back to study the redness covering his palm, all he could muster was a bitter laugh.

He held out his palm as evidence, each word coated in agony, “You could stomach her death, but nigh mine.”

Taliesen swallowed, wary in his answer, “Zev-”

But, the damage was done. Zevran forced his hand back to his side, spitting in all his hatred, “To the void!”


	41. Part Five Chapter Nine

Zevran should have taken Isabela’s offer.

In silent resolution, the young man admonished his indecision as he watched the port each morning, tempted by the option to stow away in a crate on one of the docked ships. Or perhaps quick words with the shipmen over a fictitious errand might earn him passage. The element of surprise was gone though, and with it was any means of an easy escape.

Had Zevran fled with Isabela, there would have been consequences. But with the sea at his back, he had a lifetime to hide from the Guild he cursed and a woman who might find herself obliged to protect him for all his effort in return.

Instead, he was laying low among the din between the Merchant Distinct and Tern, keen to remain covert so long as he had the coin. His early visits to the Palme worked out to his advantage, at least. The gold in his pocket, couched with a story about his House far to the South, kept most from probing too much. It helped that the consorts enjoyed his company too; although the Madame was a malevolent force he dared not test. 

Moreover, the Ladies of Palme were isolated from rest of the City. Even the servants were cloistered within the high walls, and much like a convent, the residents were disallowed to leave without permission. The young man was all too happy his reputation only stretched to Tern then, for the brothel was immune to the constant whispers of the gossipmongers.

But anonymity was fleeting. Rumors of Luis Mele’s death spread throughout the City in a blaze so grand, Zevran wondered if a bloody march might erupt. Isabela, Luis’ fair wife and jewel of the social elite, was nowhere to be found, and many assumed she was either dead or abducted in association with her husband’s murder. What was known was that the smuggler was poisoned, and House Guidain raised a tidy sum for the respected House that managed to uncover the floraesen responsible. Of course, Guidain staunchly rebuffed claims that they had any contract on the merchant, for the presumption they would dare destabilize their relationship with Valisti or the Royal Court was tenuous and easily misconstrued.

House Valisti, on the other hand, was quiet. Zevran surmised that Claudio was looking into the matter on his own, and a deep-seated fear howled that they were already aware. After all, Taliesen was the one to confront him, and House Arnii had much to prove to its respective Talons and their Masters.

The thought of the housemaster made the young man want to wretch. He did his best to dismiss the nagging belief that the very man he once wholly trusted and admired would be the one to take him down for the sake of his own reputation. Taliesen knew Zevran’s weaknesses and secrets, a fatal combination when he was the one hunted.

Zevran’s life was quickly becoming forfeit.

He stared at the ceiling, entranced in his thoughts. A light caress brought him back to the present, and the young man turned toward the touch, feigning a smile.

“You are lost,” Nya suggested. She rested her chin on his bare shoulder and batted long lashes in a coy attempt at seduction. The gesture caused Zevran to laugh. Moments like these charmed him for all her innocence.

Rolling to his side, the Crow fished for his clothing, deciding that he must do something about his circumstances rather than wallow in the unfairness of it all. He was no beggar and the Palme was no Chantry. The consort sat up and stretched, her small voice keening with the movement. Her sigh made his heart soften a little, and he smirked back at her when he said, “Nigh may I find my way with you at my side.”

She sniffed, failing to hide her own smile, and the room fell quiet. Zevran resumed searching for his shirt when she spoke again, “May I inquire?”

He did not look back this time as he pulled the cloth over his head, his response carrying a nonchalant tone, “Of course, my dear.”

“Some say you find my company because I remind you of someone.”

Zevran stopped adjusting his vest and turned back. Nya stiffened and the pair stared at each other before he managed to return, “Who says this?”

She shrugged, her head faintly shaking as she asked, “Is it true?”

The young man blanched and again searched for the remainder of his gear. And the consort must have sensed the change in his mood, for she hopped from the bed to sooth him. 

“Nigh mind,” her voice rose in pitch as she tried to dissuade his haste, “Nigh my trade to care!”

But her intentions did not matter. The mere query meant the rumors of Tern were yet again catching up to the young man. He had to leave.

Zevran was ready in quick measure, the young woman becoming more emotional in their awkward silence. Just as he was to head for the door, she blocked him, arms outstretched in a fraught plea. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she blustered at the floor, “Please! Forgive me. Nigh should I know!”

To see the woman broken so quickly took the wind out of the young man, and he took a step back to reassess the situation. A tear slipped down her cheek, and Zevran gently took her into her arms then, a sense of shame encasing him. She could not possibly understand what was happening for he never spoke of his troubles. His fear was no fault of her making.

“Neh fret,” he whispered, ushering the consort back over to the bed and kneeling before her. Nya’s face was pink with worry, her gaze searching for the meaning behind his actions. And in that moment, Zevran found himself unable to truly comfort her. Her tears may have been as much for herself as they were for him, he realized. Were he to leave now, the company she gifted would be lavished on another, the coin no more in her purse than the Madame’s. That company might not be so kind either, her harmless requests coldly disregarded rather than entertained.

Zevran sighed in resignation and cupped her cheek, forcing the young woman to look at him. He could no longer afford to be so careless with his affections if the results caused so much pain. He looked deep into her green eyes and told her, “You will be fine.”

He kissed her sweetly goodbye.

Zevran exited the back end of the brothel, careful to stay in the shadow of the courtyard that separated the main building from a labyrinth of passageways most often used by messengers. The back alleys of the Merchant District were narrow, opening into the main thoroughfare at distinct junctures. The Palme was established enough to have its own well, the open square used to wash and hang laundry, but the far end lacked a gate like many forums. As the young man navigated around the block of linens toward his exit, he was halted by the familiar figure of his housemaster leaning against the far wall.

Rage boiled over as Zevran unsheathed one of the daggers at his waist and took a single step forward, all but shouting his accusation, “You follow me?!”

“Hold nigh!” Taliesen placated, straightening and pushing out his palms in a calming gesture. The man was put together for a change, although his thin face still exposed the extent of his fatigue. The sockets of his eyes were hollow, accentuated by the apprehension etched along his straight brow as he continued, “You disappeared – neh even the Chantry knows your whereabouts for better than a fortnight, Zev! I come here daily hoping to find you.”

A scornful laugh surged as Zevran considered, “You came for the prize then, yes? Quite the bounty, I hear!”

“Neh listen!” He insisted, reducing to harsh whisper, “And nigh speak so, lest you desire the rumors to be true.”

“What does it matter, I am dead anyway!”

Taliesen hissed and another tense moment passed before his deep voice fill the forum, “They suspect neh a thing.”

“Lies!”

“Neh a lie!” The housemaster rushed, daring to step toward his partner. Zevran readied himself for whatever attack might come, his blade slanted before him, a stark warning. The other man was keen to make his story heard, though, “Claudio called upon Eoman during our parley with the Guild Master. I happened to be present. Were you with me, you would know!”

The jab was not missed, and the young man spat at the ground between them.

Taliesen groaned, “Why must you be this way? What have I done?!”

“What have you done,” Zevran repeated, heat reaching his cheeks as he squashed the impulse to cut the man down where he stood, “You make all your words sound as though you do me favor!”

“I have done you favor!” He pressed, risking another step forward, “Everything I do is to protect you! I saw the vial, and I knew! And nigh with thought, I promised to find the culprit from within the walls of Tern!”

“And you found him,” Zevran finished for the housemaster, his tone dark and assuming. Taliesen would have guessed too easily to whom the vial belonged. After all, he knew of the affair between the young man and Luis’ wife. He knew too well the skill it took to procure such a poison. And he saw the disdain the young man carried for the Merchant as well as those he traded.

“No,” Taliesen returned, now nearly within striking distance. His voice was filled with anger too, dampened only by a hint of remorse. He leveled with his old friend, “Nigh have I found him, and for that I need your help.”

Zevran shook his head, his words echoing his disbelief, “You have all to gain from my loss. Neh could I ever trust you again.”

This seemed to still the man as he stared wide-eyed at his younger ward, their kinship lost over a single betrayal. Taliesen’s expression closed off after a prolonged silence, conceding defeat, “Nigh does it have to be this way, Zev. If you would put down that blade, I am certain we could make the world right.”

“Neh does the world care for right or wrong,” his fury further provoked, “when all that matters is the order of things!”

“Aye!” The housemaster agreed, waving between them, “This is the way of it, and neh your fury or your blame will change the outcome, for you are still here!”

“Well am I aware of my place, Taliesen,” Zevran scowled, “Had the Maker any justness, you would have felt the lick of my blade.”

“Had the courage or the foresight, yes?”

His temper flared then, and Zevran raised the dagger high. And just as suddenly, the housemaster stepped forward into the arch of his reach. Taliesen stood proud, his arms outstretched, his chest perched as though it begged for the knife to sink deep. He barked, “Then do it - strike me down! Surely I, of anyone, deserve the brunt of your wrath!”

Zevran felt his expression slacken, gasping at his friend’s attempt to goad. The certainty in the housemaster’s blue eyes told a story of a man eternally dogged by regret. Of secrets, desires he was unwilling to voice, but kept buried deep within his soul. The choices he made were his burden to carry. There could never be reconciliation between them after all that had happened. Yet, a piece of the young man held him fast from excising the wounds that plagued his own heart.

Zevran clenched his jaw to keep the cry from escaping. Taliesen leaned forward, his words knowing as they were painful, “Nigh could you live with my death either.”

The air wound out of him in a dizzying gust, and the young man stepped back to find some distance from his anguish. Dagger at his side and the housemaster at his back, Zevran wandered toward the passageway the led down to the Golden Mile.

“Sinette asks about you,” He heard Taliesen say, and the woman’s name halted the young man in his tracks. He sheathed the knife and recovered his breath, only turning back when he felt he could handle the sight of the housemaster’s face again.

“Neh follow me.”

The Duel Strings were never seen in each other’s company again.

As the Santinalia approached, so did the cheer of the New Year. The drama around the Merchant’s death subsided about as quickly as it swelled. There was word of some poor scapegoat that took the fall over his death. Zevran paid little attention, too occupied by his own tortured contemplation and whatever was required of him.

He did finally return to Sinette, but the terms were that of a broken man. She found him upon her return from the Chantry in the early evening, her smile dissipating once large doe eyes landed on the forlorn form at her window. The Crow dared not look at her, even as the Courtesan took him into her arms and cooed sweet nothings into his hair. Her gentle words were enough to bring forth earnest tears for Zevran, and it was a release to be able to openly mourn the loss of his love.

Taliesen did not press his luck either. The wooden tokens were left to dangle from the cap of the copper lantern, and Zevran fulfilled the errands without question. However, the housemaster did send the Convert to the attic on occasion, much to the poor boy’s unfortunate embarrassment. Zevran could not find it in himself to snap at the pitiful thing and instead gifted him the same blade he acquired early in his stay along with a whetting stone. Before the Raul could manage back down the ladder, the Crow called him back with a small parcel of herbs. Carnassi would certainly help with the lingering ache.

All trade with House Stil ceased. Zevran gave no explanation to Ignasio, allowing his absence at the Kilne to be enough. Instead, he rekindled his tempered friendships with the Salty Brood, the group of brawny men excited and ready to hear all the tales their brother had to offer around a bottle of mead. He had been dearly missed.

The world seemingly found its order, but it was at a cost. The fire once so brilliant within the man was snuffed out. He could easily enough affect the charming young Daedric with the cup of luck as valuable as crate of gold. He could easily find temporary comfort in the eyes of any pretty maid that happened across his path too. But behind closed doors, the smile withered, and each night, he laid down hoping it would be his last.

“I have a tib, and it is grand indeed.”

Cerelus was eager to share his insight, and the remaining group at the table turned to him. The evening was late, the music and revelry calming for the briefest of moments, so many of House Arnii had already left for better interests or bed.

“Out with it!” was Velnas’ gruff response behind his stein, “You have been crawling out of your skin for days to say such.”

“Nigh mind,” the elder scolded, turning back to the small group. Leaning over his arms, he let loose, “There is talk of a contract so profane, neh even the Vancor will touch the parchment.”

Zevran perked up from the corner and grinned, “A Crow finds his limits, yes?”

“For as long as we are tied to the Grand Cleric’s hip,” Cerelus cut in, adding, “Neh are we permitted.”

“And tell me, friend,” Zevran probed more to boost the old man’s ego than for any answer, “what contract could possibly be in such ill taste?”

“The head of a Grey.”

The Salty Brood took a collective pause, all stunned by the masked meaning. Velnas was the first break, his deep, burly laugh echoing throughout the room.

“What nonsense! Where did you find this?”

“Neh is that your concern,” Cerelus sat back, pointing at his comrade, “and, mark me, it is true!”

The Free Man guffawed again, taking a long drag from his mug before moving to stand, “Andraste pray for the poor Crow caught in his master’s errand then, yes?”

With that, the men dispersed and Zevran was left baffled.

The Grey. The young man had to dig back into the dim memory of his youth to recall the meaning of the title. The Master occasionally spoke of autonomous guilds that were ruled neither by King nor Chantry, but to a higher calling of the Maker. The Templars were one such Order, tasked to keep the temptations of the Fade, a dream world filled with foreboding power, at bay for all mages in their care. The dreams and demons within them were a constant test among the many who would easily succumb if not for the years of meditation, the watchful eyes of their guards, and the isolated towers from which they resided. Orders such as these were meant to protect the people.

And if memory served, these Orders were revered as equally as they were reviled.

The Grey was a shortened term for the Grey Wardens, a sacred order of warriors founded on a single purpose – to protect Thedas from the darkest of evils. Many Ages ago, the realm of Man believed themselves gods and attempted to open the Black Gates through harnessing the magic of the Fade, or so the story was told. The Chantry hymns all spoke to the folly of pride, the fallacious belief that Man was above the Maker as to usurp his wisdom and wake the Old Gods. This event tore the world apart in what was eventually called the Blight. Hordes of monsters laid waste to the land, lead by an Archdemon, the Old God summoned by purpose or accident, bent on the destruction of Man. The end of the Blight was brought about only by the perseverance of a small band of warriors, all who originated far to the North. It was through their grave sacrifice that the Archdemon was slain and the world was righted again.

From Zevran’s perspective, this fable sounded a lot like all the other mythical tales that emerged from the Chantry. He listened and gathered the deeper lessons, but in the end, much like his old Master, he understood the stories were probably little more than fairy tales meant ease the mind of a populous too absorbed by their daily sins. The people needed to understand why they worshipped in the first place, the Orders in place brutal reminders of what could be if everyone was allowed to act with freedom and will.

Still, there were few errands that the House of Crows was unwilling to touch. Those involving the Chantry and the Grey were two areas considered taboo. It was with ignorance that anyone would make such a request, and it was Zevran’s failing that curiosity got the better of him.

“Tell me more,” he said as he slid a pint toward Cerelus the following evening.

The old man snickered but accepted the token, scrutinizing his younger brother in turn. His whiskers bristled as he spoke, “There is rumor of another Blight far to the South, and a king who is dead, left to rule by his wife.”

“Nigh has there been a Blight in hundreds of years,” Zevran noted, squinting to find the fib in his friend’s story, “Are you sure your source is correct?”

“Neh listen!” Cerelus snapped, causing the young man to flinch at the unexpected reprimand. The older man was always so easy to please, letting most offense slide off him as easily as the mead down his throat. After the tension was allowed to pass, he continued, “Ever was it in my interest to tell fables, boy. Fereldan lacks a leader, and they say the Grey were part of the coup!”

“Why?”

“What does that matter?” The old man sputtered, “Neh is this the first time the Grey were involved in seedy politics.”

“So,” Zevran was quick to slide past his indiscretion and hazarded a guess, “the queen seeks revenge.”

“The regent,” Cerelus corrected, “Her father.”

“He should send his own to fix this mess then, yes?” Zevran countered, “Why involve Antiva at all?”

“Why would any Kingdom react? Denial or fear,” Cerelus said, his tone heavy. “If the Grey have killed the King of Fereldan, the response must be severe. But, if we are to face a Blight, mark me with a merciful blade.”

Zevran did not know whether to believe the old man, but the sincerity of his words, the rumpling at the edges of his aged cheeks spoke of a much darker, deeper concern. Neither case would bode well for the South. A kingdom at war was considered a curse to its neighbors, and as a rule, Antiva did not involve itself in these disputes. The Merchant Princes and their Court were far more focused on maintaining their own wealth that engagement was limited to trade that benefited them and little more.

But a Blight, as abstract as the idea was to him, posed as great a threat as the bickering of a bordering power. Zevran could hear the faint hum of the Chant cascade over the hillside, down the Golden Mile and into the dingy roads of Dockside, heralding the downfall of their pride, their insolence, and their immorality. If the stories were true, and a horde of beasts befell them, who would stop the onslaught?

He mulled over his cup and asked to settle his own thoughts, “How much is the bid?”

“Five hundred sovereigns,” the old man replied, and the words nearly caused Zevran to cough out his lungs, “per head.”

Once he caught his breath, he asked, “How many?!”

Cerelus shrugged and drank deeply.

The bid was either too high or not high enough in his mind, and Zevran spent several nights in the attic deliberating over the prospect of such an errand. There must be a reason why the House of Crows was unwilling to take the request. Surely there were those in the Guild without scruple over politics or sacred orders. If experience proved anything to the young man, there was little point to any of it.

Perhaps they did not publically desire to answer the call. Few wanted to be seen by the Chantry as culling a revered sect. Fewer still would desire to pit themselves against the foe so formidable. The Grey were seasoned warriors, or so Zevran assumed when he visited the Chantry Archives in search for any recounts in the dusty tomes. Keen to stay hidden in the dark alcoves, he read about their history. Conscripted from all manner of origin, they were bound to their demons by a taint of their own making. The imbuement of the monsters’ blood served to hone only the chosen, now both hunter and hunted such that even after their survival over the long years of their service, they were sent into the darkness to suffer an honorable death.

Any Crow sent to face such a creature was sure to die.

Anxiety consumed him with both hope and dread. Before him was an impossible, blasphemous errand that he could not hope to survive. The idea was galvanizing. If he dared to answer the request, if it was accepted, Zevran could escape to the South. And if he truly sought penance for his sins too, the most worthy manner to accept it would be through the righteousness enacted by his mark.

Alone, he pulled out the vial meant to remind him of his duty, his sole promise, kept within the lockbox beneath his desk. He cradled it, begging for forgiveness into the hollow of the night he knew he did not deserve. Then, he pulled out parchment and the cherished quill gifted so long into his memory now, and with it Zevran wrote a letter that would decide his fate. It was early morning when he quietly slipped the sealed note into the stack beside Taliesen’s sleeping form, to be received by the Guild Master the following day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and then this puppy is done! Then comes the edit.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who happened across this story and commented or liked. I know this fandom has been effectively closed and the story I started with is decidedly AU, but I hope everyone has enjoyed it.


	42. Part Five Chapter Ten

For days, Zevran heard nothing, and the great festivals were enough to keep his distracted mind at ease. The roar of the square, the parades, the games, the fires, the drink, the mob. The everlasting hum that concatenated over it all, and the peal of the Chantry bells herding its flock to evening prayer.

It was easy to forget the woes of men among the color and life that consumed the streets of Antiva City.

Zevran spent his time with the Salty Brood, the Charm called to the betting rings in order to perform his duty and caste luck onto their chosen birds. And for the first time in ages, the young man allowed himself to enjoy the joke of it all. He reminded himself that he did have a life better than most, and if he played his cards well, he could subsist in comfort surrounded by those who admired him, at least on the surface. He was being ungrateful to reject what little he had – the truest tragedy to drown in the mire of self-defeat.

Sinette made a show for the Crow too, adamant to be on his arm wherever he went. Zevran could only lamely deny how such attention flew to his head. The Courtesan doted on him, wooed him even without the silken patches he used to so reverently bring to her. It was as though the previous year left her as achingly empty and he felt, and she was ensuring she still had his eye. She even donned his Tavinter robes, the iridescent embroidery separating her among the ensemble touring the Merchant District, her head held high as she preened like a prized peacock for all to see.

She was trying her best to make him forget, and her sincere effort warmed Zevran to his core. They could never have love, but their tacit understanding came as close as he would ever admit as he pushed the woman down onto her coverlet to remove the silk collar with his teeth.

Most blessed of all, Taliesen was away on an errand in Rialto with the Grand Master, which left him freedom to do as he pleased without risk of being watched or chastised or ridiculed. Although he was glad for his old mentor’s absence, Zevran guessed that the housemaster must have won favor with Eoman for how often he was in his company. The young man recognized too that his fall from grace must have shut him out of matters affecting the Talon, and thus, his influence and notoriety in House Arnii would be coming to an end.

It was for the best, Zevran considered. The more he knew about the House of Crows, the more he succumbed to his own bitterness. The skills he harbored as a boy were his hard won secret, one he must trade in carefully if he wished to survive another year. His dealings with the contracts were never meant to be his calling. He accepted that flirting with the grand game was more than he could handle.

Santinalia was fast approaching, and Zevran was happy for it.

“Crow.”

The afternoon was starting to wane as the messenger approached the band of Arnii men sauntering down the street. The figure was hooded, the emblem attached to his sleeve intimating he was from the Guild Master.

“Oy!” Cregin called ahead to flag down the group too drunk to recognize when they were addressed. Velnas was the first to turn back, grinning and raising a fistful of fruit into the air. The tallest of the men returned to the messenger and nodded, “For who are you calling?”

Fine tattoos lined the exposed parts of his face as he nodded at Zevran. The Salty Brood all turned to the young man then, and a chorus of badgering ricocheted off the stucco walls.

“What fair lady did you take to bed this time?”

“Neh, the housemaster will have your head, for sure!”

Zevran took their prodding in kind because the good-natured shoves from his brethren forced him to shake off the sudden punch of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His note must have been received. He extricated himself easily enough, following the silent cloaked man back up the winding road from whence they came.

The villa was oddly vacant as the Crow was escorted into the close, past the pretty maid, and up the narrow stairs. As the broad door opened to the upper veranda, it struck the young man how comfortable he had become with the process over all his life. A knock at the door, a call from the master, a contract hung off the copper lantern, he answered without question. Bile began to rise unbidden, filled with memories of the previous year and how he had grown to hate this place.

Zevran schooled his features into a casual smile as the entry opened and a wisp of the cool breeze swept up from the Bay to nip at his worry. The sun was askance to the terrace, casting only the outer arches in bright orange hues as it blazed its path across the north gate. Gynn de Payne was seated on one of the far cushions facing the sea and only turned back once the sound of the great door latched.

The elder man’s expression was dull, but underneath, Zevran could recognize his contempt. Gynn snorted and returned to observe the vista, remarking, “I am surprised to see you after the commotion only a year yet.”

He took several cautious steps farther into the room, his voice small but relaxed, “I suppose I should thank you.”

“Oh?” He turned back again, arching a thick eyebrow and leaning on the sill, “Why?”

An acidic taste filled Zevran’s throat as he managed to reply, “You gave me a candid lesson in humility that day. Discretion is a gift of the wary, yes?”

“Yet such lessons nigh stay your antics, do they?” Gynn heaved to stand and ambled toward his desk, the weighty huffs of air that left him a consequence of many years of illness. The struggle to breath appeared to frustrate the man as he spat on the way down into his chair, “You continue to make a mockery of your House and of this Talon.”

Zevran maintained his composure, asking, “What would you have of me?”

The Guild Master rummaged through a wooden tray to one side and pulled out an opened letter, tossing the folded parchment forward with his command, “Recite this to me.”

Zevran paused to gage the trick, “What makes you think I can read?”

“Nigh wise to play, boy.”

The threat within the growl was not missed, and he plucked the letter from the leather top of the desk, revealing the careful script. Swallowing, he read aloud.

To the Honored House of Arainai,

A matter of great import has claimed lands to the South, and the House of Crows is called to their favor. The errand requires one of merit and wit to parley with the Royal House of Theirin. Arnii requests to answer on behalf of the Talon and the Guild. Zevran Arainai graciously offers his service in the Name of Ar-

“Enough.”

He continued to stare at the neat cursive, too nervous to look up as the silence stretched itself over the table. Gynn took a deep breath and held it with his thoughts, letting both out in an exasperated sigh, “Do you nigh find it odd that Taliesen should write such a request?”

Zevran peeked through his bangs, slowly refolding the letter. His reticence prompted the Guild Master to continue.

“Such a letter caught me unaware,” the elder said, tapping at a second bundle of notes to emphasize his point, “So much so, I found myself combing through contracts to grasp why. And after a long search in the Vancor, I came to realize the writing – and for that matter the request – was not at all unusual, for I had seen it before,” Gynn clasped his hands together against his broad chest, leveling his gaze onto the young man, “Many times. In fact, it was only this year the tenor of Arnii was humbled again. Tell me why that would be.”

The response lodged in his throat, and Zevran had to wonder why he found himself so unwilling to admit the truth as the glare across from him darkened. Was anything that Taliesen said genuine? If the Guild Master discovered all the secrets behind the façade, would it rightly be his death knell? It was too late to care, he supposed. Perhaps the truth was better than the lie if it meant the deeps wound of his youth would at last be cleansed.

“That is because I wrote this request,” He disclosed, dropping the letter to his side, his tone flattening, “as I have written all of the requests before it.”

There was a pause as the Guild Master took in this information, his shoulders bobbing slightly with his breaths. The tension eased when the elder released another sigh dripped in disappointment, and both averted their gaze.

“You must know Eoman nigh will see this letter,” Gynn muttered.

“So my request is denied,” Zevran assumed.

“A respected Talon nigh can be tied to culling of the Grey. It goes against the Grand Cleric’s wishes.”

The Crow pressed, braving eye contact again, “Surely there is someone willing to fulfill his duty.”

To this, Gynn straightened as though he was about to issue a rebuke, questioning, “Do you truly grasp the nature of your request and the certainty of its outcome?”

Zevran broke into a wry grin against all his better judgment, the opinion of his housemaster resonating with every word, “A mark is a mark. Nigh am I to question, yes?”

“And you believe the success of such a mark will bring you worth?”

The challenge was meant to cow him, but Zevran raised his chin and replied, “Yes.”

The Guild Master pursed his lips, and another stagnant silence captured them. He leaned onto the desk to steeple his fingers, noting, “You refuse the reward as written to the Vancor. What exactly do you desire?”

Zevran side glanced, knitting his brows together before facing forward again. He was not ready to make his demands until he knew such claims would not immediately call for his death. Bolstering what remained of his confidence, he said, “I wish to be accepted as a floraesen into the House of Guidain, as I was apprenticed.”

The elder stilled and ire emanated from behind his eyes to nail the young man to the floor. The expression on any other day might have caused Zevran to soften his words as a spun yarn, hoping his housemaster would swoop in with swift redirection to more important matters. But today was likely his last chance at freedom, and challenging the very authority of his Guild was the final trial. 

Gynn’s words were guarded, “And you believe I could grant this request?”

“You are from the House of Guidain,” Zevran quickly countered and the elder raised his eyebrows brows in surprise.

“So I am,” he acknowledged after a moment. The Guild Master selected a goblet at one corner of the desk and poured himself a portion of wine, stating as he did so, “You are naïve to suggest I hold sway over such great House.”

“Even so, by Andraste’s luck and I prosper, the Vancor must issue a boon on my behalf, yes?”

The elder again peered up in surprise and the pair resumed their tense standoff.

“I knew Master Naheeme very well.” Gynn changed tact then, his voice filling with nostalgic fondness as he fiddled with the edge of his glass and twitched up, “I looked to him fondly when I was your age. I wanted to be just like him – I am, in fact, very much like him.”

Zevran felt a chill run up his spine.

“Oh, neh the man you knew,” he smiled, “but he was the man I knew.”

“You were spurned as an apprentice,” Zevran proclaimed, no longer able to conceal the disdain. The clarity was stunning as it was sickening to recognize that his appeal to someone from the same House might have been for naught. The curious glances, the burning ire, the sharp verbal jabs over all the years were meant as retribution for a skill he was denied so many years ago. There was little reason for Gynn to support the whims of the one who surpassed him.

“Master Naheeme spurred all his apprentices, neh any considered worthy,” Gynn corrected with a cynical huff, pointing at the young man, “I knew of you long before he died, though. I asked him his plans when he nigh longer could hide you as his porter.”

“If you believed so lowly of me, you should have given me to the House of Stil,” Zevran replied, his words clipped, a frown etched deep into his sharp jawline, “They were surely eager to impart their wisdom.”

“As you were your wrath,” The Guild Master smiled ruefully. He sat back and tilted his head to one side, “I know your talent, for surely the only reason you still live.”

Gynn paused, sucking on his cheeks in thought, allowing the Crow to fume over this new insight. The Guild always understood, then. And yet none of it mattered. Taliesen’s insistence on a new trade and the deference in service for a House he never would have chosen if given a choice. Could his life have been different if he stood up sooner, demanded his place? Would the Guild Master have so willingly acknowledged him then as he did now?

“You must understand, Zevran. The House of Guidain nigh imparts her wisdom onto the scraps of a Hound.” Gynn was seemingly past the injustice of it all, intent instead to clear the air between them. He gestured at the young man and leaned forward, his tone black and damning, “This skill must be earned through work and worth crowned over generations. Philippe thought he knew better than the Masters before him, and so he ignored his duty. What he did to you, innate or learned, was nigh his right.”

The reality hurt and with it elicited a hard snort from the young man. He felt like storming from the veranda and cutting down the very foundation that built up his life. He felt his throat tighten, biting his cheek the only way to keep unwanted tears from brimming.

All his effort was a waste.

“Master Naheeme was quite fond of you, you should know.” The Guild Master looked down onto the leather top of his desk, the winding rumble that left him showcasing his reluctance to admit the truth.

Zevran held his breath.

“Perhaps he was right,” Gynn’s tone was callous as he peered back up at the man, “You have what the Orlesians call lutte du destin. You fight against your fate. Some might find that admirable. They might say you either can rise into greatness or die in her embrace. I think they are all fools.”

Their standoff remained as the young man stood across from his elder, their exposed rivalry forever casting enemies. Zevran pondered what few options he might have left when Gynn’s voice echoed over the veranda. The words were wholly unexpected.

“I will give you this errand,” He said decisively as he sat back, “If you have proven your worth in the end, I will vouch for you.”

The air rushed from Zevran’s lungs, his golden eyes blowing wide as he listened intently for the remainder of the command, “Should you fail, neh return unless to face your fate.”

The ramifications meant little to the man as he hastily nodded. Gynn reached into the tray of letters and withdrew a wooden token, on which his instructions would be written. He tossed the medallion across the desk and clasped his hands again and told him, “There is a merchant vessel to set sail to Denerim at dusk.”

Zevran willed himself to say nothing as he reached across the table and retrieved the token. The silence was their final farewell, their mutual hatred simmered for the chance to either seek a feigned freedom or be rid of a plaguing nuisance. As the door closed behind him, shock was replaced the impending dread as the Crow nearly ran down the steps, past the pretty maid, and out the close leading to the Golden Mile.

Dusk was almost upon him. 

With quick strides, the man skirted around the parade that engulfed the cobbled road, flew past as the pristine, whitewashed walls turned ashen with the grime and wear of Dockside. The merchants were calling their dinner among the crowds. The games were entertaining onlookers at every corner. The House would be empty, and Zevran could make his escape.

He rushed the stairs two at a time, up to the loft where he gathered his belongings into a thick linen satchel with a rushed and clumsy flair so unlike the man everyone knew. What few essentials he could afford to carry on such a long journey amounted to his coin, his elixirs, his dried goods, and his notebook. His best daggers, a cloak, and suitable leather guards for protection. Some food with the hope he could barter for better seaside. He bound the glassware tightly within a spare tunic and weighed the mortar and pestle with taught indecision. The stone would take too much space for whatever he could find in the South.

Zevran’s hands stopped short of the lantern then, hovering just over the lid. So many years were spent in bowed reverence before this tool, and the man swallowed a cry as he pulled back a fist to his side. The copper lantern was never meant to be his, no matter how much he desired to protect it in the memory of another, or so Gynn said. 

Part of him wanted to so strongly deny such claims, prove the Guild Master wrong. Show all the skill he capable of with the very object the elder coveted all his life. Yet another part of the man desired nothing more than to be rid of the chains that kept him trapped in this place. The lantern smoke may as well have been the noose by which to hang him.

The copper lantern would remain a memento, a reminder of where he came from for anyone else who happened into his space. For the housemaster whom would only learn of his ward’s actions once he returned to the House spent and ready to lead his brethren into glory once again.

The thought of Taliesen caused the man to slouch in sorrow against the stack of crates that acted as his makeshift wall. For all of the folly between the Duel Strings, Zevran could never discard how he cared for his friend, how he would miss him even now. It was with tragedy their tale ended not with a climatic clash of swords, but with sly words of a gifted quill.

The man swallowed his pride and closed his pack. Careful to exit the house, he made his way into Tern, down the steep road to the docks. The sun had already fallen over the Steps, the foreground set deep into shadow even as the azure of the sea was yet bright well beyond the mouth of the Bay.

He counted the vessels down the row, noting the emblems painted onto each bow that heralded the fleet to which it belonged. Some ships were known courier vessels, small and speedy on their course, while others sat far from shore, too large to land safely in low tide. A merchant vessel destined to the South would be large, Zevran guessed, and so he took aim at a lone rowboat on the far end of the dock.

A massive man stood resolute at the keel of the boat, ignoring the Crow until he was just below him. Zevran noted the painted symbol of a hound holding a fish in its large maw and paired it with a vessel far afield still bathed in sunlight.

Zevran glanced up and smiled. The man had a wide, square jaw and tanned complexion that appeared grey in the dimming light. Without a word, the Crow tugged at the medallion in his pocket. Flashing it at the man was met with no reaction at first, but after a moment, he stepped aside, the boat precariously rocking from the movement.

He knew better than to waste the guard’s time and managed onto the boat with shaky footing. And once seated, the guard pushed off from the dock to row them into the Bay.

This was his chance, his final liberating chance at freedom, wherever that might take him! The realization was exhilarating and frightening. Zevran stared at the wake rippling away from the edge of the boat, reminded that it was not the Daelish way to sail on water. He wondered if any of the sailors on this vessel were Daedric. He wondered then if he would ever see his home again, and the man turned back one last time to see the arc of the port opening before him with each pull of the oar. He forgot to say goodbye to Izeek and Nabul. The Salty Brood was expecting him at the tavern. Sinette.

A sting of regret blanketed him, and the man warred over the struggle between finding any means out of his circumstances and leaving behind all that he knew and cared for. Perhaps there was room to succeed, should Andraste bless him with luck beyond even a legend could boast. Perhaps he could prove his worth and return to make his mark for all those who doubted him. He would make the world right again, surely, were it not for the singeing reminder of all he lost in the process.

No. He would leave, and if the Maker was as merciful as the Chantry Call persisted, he would never return.

As the boat bobbed on the tide and the dock diminished into the evening, Zevran caught a lone figure on the very edge. Leaning on a crate was Ren, steadfast as always, watching as the man embarked on his journey. The pair gazed at each other and nodded, a singular sign of respect between two Crows.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I've managed to finish! Hope you all liked this story! Thanks for taking the time to read it - I understand that it is a slightly AU depiction of Zevran's origin, but it was meant as a character study, and as I've said in previous chapters, I never really bought everything he said in the game at face value. Anyway, let me know what you think. I plan to do a full edit of this story, but no major changes expected. Thanks!


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